a  i  E)  R_A  RY 

OF  THE 
U  N  I  VERS  ITY 
or  1  LLI  N  O  15 

Q920.7 
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WORLD-NOTED 


WOMEN ; 


OE, 


TYPES 


OF 


WOMANLY  ATTRIBUTES  OF  ALL  LANDS 

AND  AOES. 


BY 


MAEY  COWDEN  CLARKE, 

AUTHOR  OF  "the  IEON  COUSIN,"  "  THE  GIRLHOOD  OF  SHAKESPEARE's  HEEOrSTES," 
"the  complete  CONCORDANCE  TO  SHAKESPEARE," 
ETC.,  ETC. 


WITH  SEVENTEEN  ENGRAVINGS  ON  STEEL,  FKOM  ORIGINAL  DESIGNS 
BY  CHARLES  STAAL. 


"  Tlie  world's  largo  tongue  proclaims  you." 

Shakespeare. 


NEW  YORK: 
D.  APPLETON   AND  COMPANY, 

443  &  445  BROADWAY. 
186V. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  tlie  year  1857,  by 
D.  APPLETON  &  COMPANY, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern  District  of 

New  York. 


PREFACE. 

Pkesenting  together  in  a  collected  form  of  analytical  disquisition,  and 
pictorial  illustration,  several  of  the  women  most  noted  in  the  world's  an- 
nals, it  is  interesting  to  consider  the  individuality  marking  each ;  and  the 
curious  variety  of  respective  distinction,  which  has  set  these  personages 
apart,  as  either  renowned  or  notorious,  above  the  ordinary  range  of  their 
sisterhood.  In  thus  considering  them,  I  have  taken  leave  to  judge  excep- 
tional characters  hy  exceptional  rules ;  and,  since  this  selection  was  made 
for  me,— not  chosen  by  myself,— I  have  written  upon  them  with  large 
(not  so  much  allotoa^ice,  as)  construction. 

I  have  treated  the  subjects  appointed  for  me  to  discuss,  with  my  utmost 
candour,  and  with  as  much  of  discrimination  and  judgment  as  in  me  lay. 
I  have  endeavoured  to  look  upon  them  with  unprejudiced  eyes ;  and  to 
throw  myself  as  much  as  possible  into  the  periods  in  which  they  lived, 
and  the  events  among  which  they  moved.  I  have  tried  to  judge  them 
according  to  the  complexion  of  the  eras  in  which  they  figured,  and  the 
^incidents  which  coloured  their  opinions,  their  words,  and  their  actions. 

Lord  Bacon,— that  great  authority  in  judgment,  critical,  philosophical,  and 
tli;^legal,— has  told  us,  that  "  it  is  the  part  of  a  just  judge  to  take  into  consid- 
X^eration  not  only  facts  but  the  times  and  circumstances  of  facts ; "  so,  in 
^-weighing  the  facts  connected  with  the  Women's  characters  assembled  in 
this  book,  I  have  done  my  best  to  render  them  justice  in  consonance  with 
'>this  Verulam  rule. 

K     In  regarding  these  World-noted  Women,  who  have  severally  created 
rso  much  interest,  and  awakened  so  much  emotion  in  the  different  spheres 
wherein  they  existed,  it  were  idle  to  view  them  otherwise  than  as  isolated 
-exemplars  of  special  qualities ;  they  are  not  so  much  types  of  a  class  of 
'^Vomeu,  as  types  of  particular  womanly  attributes;  and,  far  from  their  all 
being  looked  upon  as  models,  they  are,  in  some  instances,  to  be  beheld  as 
bc^beacons  of  warning.    With  this  borne  in  mind,  it  affords  a  fascinating 
^i-study  to  contemplate  a  woman  like  Cleopatra, — that  "  Serpent  of  old 
'=^Nile,"— she,  who  held  Mark  Antony's  heart  in  thrall,  and  "  caught  him  in 


^  PREFACE. 

her  strong  toil  of  grace;"  or  a  Avoman  like  Isabella  of  Castile,  who  was 
virtuous  as  slie  was  wise,  modest  as  she  was  illustrious. 

It  is  also  interesting  to  notice  the  links  of  historic  association  which 
connect  such  widely  various  women  as  Valentina,  Joan  of  Arc,  Margaret 
of  Anjou,  Lady  Jane  Grey,  Isabella  of  Castile,  Maria  Theresa,  and  Catli- 
erine  II.,  through  the  long  series  of  years,  and  separate  lands  in  which 
they  respectively  lived.  As  thus:— "le  beau  Dunois"  bore  a  part  ir 
both  Yalentina's  and  Joan  of  Arc's  history ;  Margaret  was  niece  to 
the  French  king,  Charles  YII.,  who,  as  Dauphin,  was  the  object  of 
Joan's  loyal  championship ;  Lady  Jane  Grey  was  grand-daughter  to 
Charles  Brandon,  who  married  the  widow-queen  of  Louis  XII.,  grandson 
to  Valentina  ;  and  so  forth,  along  the  chain  of  circumstance.  Leigli  Hunt, 
in  a  delightful  essay  entitled  ^'Social  Genealogy,"  shows  how  the  present 
generation  may  have  shaken  hands  with  Shakespeare  himself,  by  this 
"  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out  "  of  cordially  interchanged  palm-clasp- 
ing. And  by  similar  pleasant  tricks  of  the  imagination  we  may  trace  the 
connection  between  the  strangely  differing  "VVorld-noted  Women  Avho  ap- 
pear side  by  side  in  these  pages. 

It  may  be  well  here  to  observe  that  I  have  ventured  to  annex  transla- 
tions (so  close  as  to  be  almost  literal)  of  quoted  passages  for  the  behoof 
of  those  who  may  not  be  conversant  with  the  language  in  which  the  orig 
inals  are  written. 

I  gladly  avail  myself,  also,  of  the  opportunity  now  presented,  to  offer 
my  thanks  to  those  friends,— some,  of  very  recent  date,  and  who  therefore 
deserve  the  greater  acknowledgment,  since  they  assisted  one  comparative- 
ly a  stranger  to  them,— who,  with  kindest  promptitude,  helped  me  in  pro- 
curing such  literary  sources  for  research  as  my  distance  from  old  familiar 
native  book-haunts  prevented  my  readily  obtaining. 

I  must  not  omit,  likewise,  to  assign  the  credit  of  the  "Joan  of  Arc  " 
where  it  is  due,  in  stating  that  it  has  been  contributed  by  another  hand 
than  mine  ;  a  lady  of  Philadelphia,  widely  known  in  the  ranks  of  litera- 
ture as  Grace  Greenwood,  having  supplied  the  memoir  of  that  glorious 
but  misprized  heroine. 

Especially  pleasant  to  me  is  it,  to  recognize  the  debt  of  gratitude  I 
owe  to  my  generous  friend,  Mrs.  Balmanno,  of  New  York,  who  has  writ- 
ten the  account  of  "  Pocahontas  "  for  me  in  this  work. 

Maky  Cowdkn  Ci.akke. 

Nice,  June,  1857. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


SAPPHO,  .... 

Greece, 

B.  c. 

612, 

PAGB 

9 

LUCEETIA,      .       .  . 

Rome, 

509,  . 

23 

ASPASIA,  .... 

Greece, 

IC 

480, 

.  41 

CLEOPATRA, 

Egypt, 

u 

69,  . 

61 

ST.  CECILIA,  . 

.  Rome, 

A.  D. 

230, 

.  87 

HBLOISE,  .... 

France, 

a 

1101,  . 

113 

LAURA,  .... 

.  France, 

(( 

1308, 

.  145 

VALENTINE  DE  MILAN,  . 

Italy, 

<< 

1370,  . 

171 

JOAN  D'ARC,     .      .       .  . 

.  France, 

(( 

1410, 

.  185 

MARGARET  OP  ANJOU,  . 

France, 

li 

1429,  . 

205 

ISABELLA  OF  CASTILE, 

.  Spain, 

u 

1450, 

.  235 

LADY  JANE  GREY,  . 

England, 

u 

1537,  . 

263 

POCAHONTAS,  .       .       .  . 

America, 

u 

1595, 

.  283 

LA  VALLlllRE,  . 

France, 

Cl 

1644,  . 

309 

MARIA  THERESA,  . 

Austria, 

u 

1717, 

.  327 

CATHERINE  XL  . 

Russia, 

u 

1729,  . 

345 

FLORENCE  NIGHTINGALE,  . 

England, 

u 

1823, 

.  377 

I. 


LIST  OF  PORTRAITS. 

« 


DESIGNER. 

SAPPHO,          ,          .          .          CHARLES  STAAL, 

ENGEAVEE. 
FKANCIS  nOLL, 

PAOJ 

9 

LUCRETIA, 

(( 

B.   ETLES,  . 

.  33 

ASPASIA, 

(( 

F.  HOLL, 

41 

CLEOPATEA,  , 

K 

W.  I.  EDWARDS, 

.  61 

ST.  CECILIA, 

(I 

COOK, 

87 

HELOISE, 

(( 

W.  I.  EDWARDS,  . 

.  113 

LAURA,  .... 

(t 

F.  HOLL, 

145 

VALENTINE  DE  MILAN, 

U 

W.   I.  EDWARDS, 

.  171 

JOAN  D'ARC, 

It 

W.  H.  MOTE,  . 

185 

MARGARET  OF  ANJOU, 

It 

(C 

.  205 

ISABELLA  OP  CASTILE, 

IC 

(( 

235 

LADY  JANE  GREY,  . 

u 

F.  HOLL,  . 

.  263 

POCAHONTAS, 

a 

B.  EYLES, 

288 

LA  VALLIERE,  . 

(( 

W.  HOLL,  . 

.  309 

MARIA  THERESA,  . 

« 

B.  EYLES, 

327 

CATHERINE  IL,  . 

COOK, 

.  345 

FLORENCE  NIGHTINGALE, 

(( 

W.   H.  MOTE,  . 

377 

SAPPHO. 

The  name  of  Sapplio  is  almost  identical  in  the  mind  with  the  word 
Poetess.  Hundreds  of  women  have  written  verse ;  but  of  the  very 
few  women  who  have  attained  the  renown  of  living  to  posterity 
as  worthy  to  bear  the  honoured  title  of  poetess,  Sappho  ranks  pre- 
eminent. She  stands  at  the  head  of  that  select  sisterhood  privi- 
leged to  take  place  among  those  upon  whom  Wordsworth  invokes 
di^ane  favour: 

"  Blessings  be  with  them— and  eternal  praise, 
Who  gave  us  nobler  loves  and  nobler  cares,- 


The  Poets,  who  on  earth  have  made  us  heirs 
Of  truth  and  pure  delight,  by  heavenly  lays  !" 

Eaphael,  prince  of  painters,  has  given  Sappho  a  conspicuous  posi- 
tion in  his  picture  of  "  Mount  Parnassus :"— She  is  seated  on  the  left- 
hand  front;  her  beautiful  plain  face  looking  up  in  eager  intelli- 
gence towards  a  group  of  Earth's  greatest  poets.  It  was  a  piece 
of  fine  taste  in  Eaphael,  thus  placing  the  woman-poet  as  it  were 
at  the  foot  of  those  grand  men,  with  her  eyes  turned  in  sympa- 
thetic spirit  up  among  them. 

To  Sappho  was  awarded  the  exalted  distinction  of  being  called 
2 


10  SAPPHO. 

tlie  "  Tenth  Muse,"  as  Avortliy  to  rank  with  her  whom  Dan  Chau- 
cer thus  apostrophises : 

"  Be  favourable  eke  thou,  Polymuia, 
On  Parnassus  that  with  thy  sisters  glad 
By  Helicon,  and  not  far  from  Cirrha, 
Singest  with  voice  memorial  in  the  shade. 
Under  the  laurel,  which  that  may  not  fade.'" 

The  praises  of  the  Lesbian  Poetess  have  been  hymned  by  bards 
of  all  ages.  The  classic  writers  of  antiquity,  cited  her  as  foremost 
in  the  power  of  expressing  tender  and  amatory  emotions,  Ovid, 
not  only  in  his  "Art  of  Love,"  but  in  his  "Heroides,"  and  "  De 
Tristibus,"  makes  allusion  to  her;  and  Horace  records  her  pathetic 
strains,  where,  in  the  ode  relating  his  accident  from  the  fall  of  a 
tree,  he  says  how  near  he  was  to  hearing 

"  Mollis  fidibus  querentem 
Sappho  puellis  de  popularibus  ;" 

["  Sappho  plaining  on  .^olian  lute 
Of  neighbour  maidens  mournfully."] 

Plutarch  quotes,  as  infallible  authority,  her  description  of  the 
tokens  by  which  a  passionate  lover  may  be  recognized:  "those 
signs  which  Sappho  writeth  to  be  in  lovers  ;  to  wit :  that  his  words 
and  speech  did  fail  him,  his  colour  became  red,  his  eyes  still  rolled 
to  and  fro,  and  then  a  sudden  sweat  would  take  him,  his  pulse 
would  beat  fast  and  rise  high  ;  and  in  the  end,  that  after  the  force 
and  power  of  his  heart  hath  failed  him,  and  showed  all  these  signs, 
he  became  like  a  man  in  an  ecstasy  and  trance,  and  as  white  as  a 
kerchief." 

That  Sappho  should  have  been  misunderstood  by  the  vulgar,  is 
only  natural;  and  the  later  recognition  of  her  excellence  by  the 
more  discriminating,  is  in  accordance  with  that  law  which  prohibits 
immediate  appreciation  of  the  finest  genius.    Shelley  discerningly 


SAPPHO.  11 

says : — "  Poetry  is  ever  accompanied  with  pleasure  :  all  spirits  on 
whicli  it  falls  open  themselves  to  receive  the  wisdom  which  is 
mingled  with  its  delight.  In  the  infancy  of  the  world,  neither 
poets  themselves  nor  their  auditors  are  fully  aware  of  the  excel- 
lence of  poetry :  for  it  acts  in  a  divine  and  unapprehended  manner, 
beyond  and  above  consciousness;  and  it  is  reserved  for  future 
generations  to  contemplate  and  measure  the  mighty  cause  and 
effect  in  all  the  strength  and  splendour  of  their  union.  Even  in 
modern  times,  no  living  poet  ever  arrived  at  the  fulness  of  his 
fame ;  the  jury  which  sits  in  judgment  upon  a  poet,  belonging,  as 
he  does,  to  all  time,  must  be  composed  of  his  peers :  it  must  be 
impannelled  by  Time  from  the  selectest  of  the  wise  of  many  gener- 
ations. A  poet  is  a  nightingale,  who  sits  in  darkness,  and  sings  to 
cheer  its  own  solitude  with  sweet  sounds  ;  his  auditors  are  as  men 
entranced  by  the  melody  of  an  unseen  musician,  who  feel  that 
they  are  moved  and  softened,  yet  know  not  whence  or  why." 

So  meagre,  and  so  contradictory  are  the  accounts  of  Sai3pho  her- 
self, that  we  can  only  collect  the  varying  circumstances,  and  gather 
from  them  those  most  likely  to  be  the  truth:  but  with  the  one 
great  fact  of  what  she  was  in  spirit,— and  which  she  has  bequeathed 
to  the  world  in  the  form  of  undoubted  poetic  repute,— we  can  rest 
content  in  grateful  credence  and  admiration.    One  of  the  chief 
causes  why  so  little  is  known  with  certainty  regarding  SapjDho,  is, 
that  there  were  two  women  born  in  the  Isle  of  Lesbos,  both  named 
alike.    The  native  place  of  Sappho,  the  poetess,  was  Mitylene ; 
while  that  of  Sappho,  the  courtesan,  was  Eresos.    The  fame  of  the 
one,  and  the  infamy  of  the  other,  became  blended  in  history,  from 
the  identity  of  name,  and  from  the  circumstance  of  Mitylene  and 
Eresos  being  towns  in  the  same  island.    "Sappho,  the  Lesbian," 
might  apply  to  either  the  lady  noted  for  intellectual  pursuits,  or  to 
the  damsel  notorious  for  dissolute  pursuits.    Moreover,  from  Sappho 


12 


S  A  P  P  HO 


of  Mitylene's  verse  being  peculiarly  powerful  in  tlie  expression  of 
amorous  sentiment,  it  miglit  naturaUy  lead  to  her  character  be- 
coming mixed,  in  common  report,  witli  tliat  of  Sappho  of  Eresos ; 
for  a  passionate  and  poetic  temperament  is  apt  to  be  misunder- 
stood by  vulgar  and  prosaic  minds,  and  to  be  confounded  by  tbem 
with  depravity. 

This  has  probably  given  rise  to  popular  floating  traditions  of 
Sappho's  desperate  attachment  to  a  youth  caUed  Phaon  ;  a  name 
which  does  not  occur  in  any  of  her  poems  that  are  extant,  and 
which,  being  one  of  the  appellatives  given  to  Venus's  favourite, 
Adonis,  might  well  have  been  used  by  the  poetess  in  passages  de- 
scribing the  goddess  of  Love's  addressed  to  the  reluctant  object  of 
her  flame.    Another  of  the  ordinarily  received  legends  respecting 
Sappho,— and  which  has  been  so  closely  interwoven  with  her  idea, 
that  it  is  almost  impossible  to  think  of  her  without  associating  the 
incident,— is,  her  having  sought  extinction  for  her  hapless  passion, 
by  throwing  herself  from  the  Leucadian  rock  into  the  sea.  But 
accumulated  evidence,— both  positive  and  negative,— from  ancient 
writers,  tends  to  prove  beyond  a  rational  doubt,  that  Sappho  never 
took  the  leap  from  the  promontory  of  Leucadia,  which  was  held 
to  be  a  sovereign  remedy  for  despairing  lovers.    They  who  relate 
this  story  of  her  fail  to  state  whether  Sappho  lost  her  life,  or  sur- 
vived, after  precipitating  herself  from  the  rock ;  and  they  who 
omit  to  relate  the  incident,  have  entered  into  other  particulars 
concerning  her,  with  too  much  minuteness  of  detail,  not  to  make 
their  very  omission  of  this  one,  a  tacit  evidence  of  its  being  untrue. 
For  instance  :  "  Herodotus  (who,  as  Voltaire  wittily  says,  "  doesn't 
always  Me'')  goes  into  a  long  account  of  Sappho^s  addressing  a 
remonstrance  to  her  brother  Charaxus,  for  having  given  a  large 
sum  in  the  purchase  of  a  female  slave  called  Ehodopis,  from  her 
master  at  Naucratis  in  Egypt;  and  speaks  of  other  family  cir- 


SAPPHO. 


13 


cumstances  connected  witli  Sapj)lio :  but  mentions  nothing  of  tlie 
unreturned  affection  slie  is  supposed  to  have  conceived  for  Phaon, 
nor  of  tlie  leap  from  tlie  Leucadian  rock,  whicli  is  imagined  to  have 
ended  her  passion  and  her  life.  This  silence  of  the  "  Father  of 
History "  respecting  two  events,  which  from  their  importance 
deserved  commemoration,  in  a  recital  where  he  dwells  upon  much 
slighter  points,  seems  conclusive  that  they  did  not  occur  to  the 
Sappho  of  whom  he  treats, — Sappho  of  Mitylene.  Yet  the  Leuca- 
dian leap,  with  its  attributed  mystical  power  of  curing  hopeless 
love,  was  just  one  of  those  incidents  which  Herodotus  would  have 
been  sure  to  seize  upon, — either  for  the  purpose  of  making  the 
most  of  it,  or  for  searching  into  its  origin, — had  it  occurred  to  her 
of  whom  he  speaks.  In  an  elegy  written  by  Hermesianax  upon 
the  partialities  of  celebrated  poets,  he  cites  as  an  example  Sapj^ho's 
liking  for  Anacreon ;  but  says  nothing  of  her  fondness  for  Phaon. 
Now,  so  fatal  a  prepossession  as  her  supposed  fancy  for  the  latter  has 
been  represented,  together  with  its  catastrophe,  would  have  fur- 
nished the  most  fitting  theme  possible  for  elegiac  verse,  had  they 
actually  formed  part  of  the  poetess's  career.  Antipater,  of  Sidon, 
composed  an  epigram  relative  to  Sappho's  tomb  ;  yet  he  not  only 
reverts  nowise  to  her  tragical  fate  at  Leucadia,  but  according  to 
him,  her  death  was  a  natural  one,  and  a  monument  was  erected  to 
her  memory  in  the  place  of  her  birth,  where  she  was  buried.  The 
poet  Menander  positively  asserts  that  Sappho  was  the  first  who 
took  the  Leucadian  leap  ;  but  Menander  lived  at  the  close  of  the 
fourth,  and  the  commencement  of  the  third  century  before  the 
Christian  era.  This  makes  the  period  of  the  Sappho's  existence,  who 
threw  herself  from  the  Leucadian  rock,  reach  as  far  back  as  more 
than  three  centuries  before  Christ,  but  not  so  far  back  as  five ; 
while  the  fact  that  Herodotus,  who  was  in  the  fifth  century,  did 
not  record  this  disastrous  end  happening  to  Sappho  of  Mitylene, 


14 


s  A  p  r  II  0 


leaves  the  deduction  to  Ibe  drawn,  that  m  all  probability  it  was 
Sappho  of  Eresos  who  took  the  Leucadian  leap,  she  not  being  born 
when  Herodotus  wrote. 

The  facts  to  be  gathered  respecting  Sappho  the  poetess,  are 
these.  She  was  born  in  Mitylene,  about  612  B.  C.  Her  father's 
name  has  been  variously  stated  to  jave  been  Scamandronymus, 
Symon,  Semus,  or  Etarchus ;  and  her  mother's  was  generally  held 
to  be  Cleis.  Early  in  life  she  became  the  wife  of  Cercolus,  a 
wealthy  and  distinguished  gentleman  of  Andros,  by  whom  she 
had  one  child,  called,— probably  in  honour  of  her  mother, — Cleis. 
A  few  years  after  her  marriage,  SajDpho  became  a  widow ;  and 
it  was  then  that  she  dedicated  herself  to  the  cultivation  of  her 
poetic  gift.  She  also  strove  to  distract  her  sorrow  by  travelling ; 
and  journeyed  through  continental  Greece,  where  she  was  much 
admired  and  sought  after  by  persons  of  intelhgence.  Returning 
to  her  native  island,  she  instituted  a  school  of  poetry  and  philo- 
sophy ;  and  endeavored  to  inspire  the  Lesbian  ladies  with  a  taste 
for  intellectual ,  pursuits.  Imaginative  and  ardent  natures  throw  a 
voluptuous  beauty  into  whatever  they  undertake ;  and  enter  en- 
thusiastically into  plans  formed  with  a  generous  view  to  improve 
and  refine.  Fervour  of  character  is  almost  always  mistaken  or  mis- 
represented. The  generality  do  not  understand  it,  and  either  take 
it  for  absurdity  or  vice : — the  envious  comprehend  it  better,  but 
are  indignant  at  it,  a^Ad  represent  it  as  selfishness  under  the  guise 
of  noble  feeliug.  Sappho's  warmth  of  disposition  made  her  eager 
in  all  that  she  did;  and  eagerness  is  resented  by  the  ordinary 
grade  of  people,  who  like  smooth,  commonplace,  and  easy  conven- 
tionality. Besides,  her  attempts  to  introduce  a  higher  state  of 
cultivation  among  her  people  was  crowned  with  a  certain  amount 
of  success  ;  and  success  is  sure  to  excite  animosity.  She  numbered 
among  her  disciples  several  illustrious  names  ;  and  this  was  not  to 


SAPPHO.  16' 

be  borne  tamely  by  those  ■who  smarted  beneath  a  sense  of  her 
superior  attainments  and  graces.  Sappho,  although  not  handsome, 
was  attractive,  as  well  as  gifted, — a  perilous  combination  for  a 
woman,  whose  consciousness  of  grace  and  genius,  together  with 
ardour  of  nature,  will  not  suffer  her  to  remain  in  obscurity.  It  is 
a  moral  necessity  with  such  beings  as  Sappho  to  exercise  the  quali- 
ties with  which  Heaven  has  endowed  them.  They  instinctively 
feel  the  force  of  Shakespeare's  grand  axiom  :— 

"  If  our  virtues 
Did  not  go  forth  of  us,  'twere  all  alike 
As  if  we  Lad  them  not.    Spirits  are  not  finely  touched, 
But  to  fine  issues  :  nor  nature  never  lends       -     -  , 
The  smallest  scruple  of  her  excellence, 
But,  like  a  thrifty  goddess,  she  determines 

Herself  the  glory  of  a  creditor,  ; 
Both  thanks  and  use." 

Sappho  gratefully  used  Nature's  gifts  in  the  noblest  way,  when 
she  dedicated  them  to  the  endeavour  of  advancing  the  mental  cul- 
ture of  her  native  Lesbians;  and  those  among  them  who  were 
most  capable  of  profiting  by  her  efforts,  estimated  her  duly,  honour- 
ing her  as  an  inspired  teacher,  an  alluring  guide,  whose  feminine 
charm  aided  her  admirable  faculties  in  leading  them  to  higher 
elevation  and  accomplishment.  But  by  the  gross-minded,  the 
little-minded,  and  the  grudging-minded,  Sappho's  attempts  to 
ameliorate  the  condition  of  those  around  her,  and  to  introduce 
greater  refinement  in  their  social  pursuits,  were  construed  into 
vilest  meaning,  and  made  the  ground  of  the  most  odious  im- 
putations. Her  luxurious  enjoyment  of  Art,  her  exquisite  appre- 
ciation of  the  passion  of  Love  in  its  matchless  beatitude,  her 
intense  perception  of  the  loveliness  and  bhss  existing  in  Poesy  and 
Music  as  recreations  to  the  spirit,  drew  upon  her  the  charge  of 
sensuality  ;   and  she  who  strove  to  exalt  her  associates,  was 


IQ  SAPPHO. 

accused  of  seeking  to  debase  them.    Either  wounded  by  these 
injurious  calumnies,  or, — as  some  accounts  say, — owing  to  pohtical 
causes,  (being  accused  by  her  enemies  of  complicity  with  Alcseus 
in  a  conspiracy  against  Pittacus,  the  governor  of  Mitylene,)  she 
retired  for  a  time  into  Sicily.     Here  the  friendship  between 
herself  and  Anacreon,  alluded  to  by  Hermesianax,  was  sujoposed  to 
have  been  formed ;  but  Athenseus  maintains  that  the  elegiast  was 
mistaken  in  believing  that  Sappho  entertauied  any  preference  for 
Anacreon,  since,  as  he  asserts,  Sappho  lived  during  the  time  when 
Alyattes,  father  to  Crcesus,  reigned;  and  Anacreon  during  that 
of  Cyrus  and  Polycrates.    The  well-knoAvn  rivalry  in  poetical 
composition  which  subsisted  between  Alcseus  and  Sappho,  each 
being  held  by  their  respective  partisans  to  excel  the  other  in 
merit,  seems  to  preclude  the  idea  of  her  being  engaged  with  him 
in  any  confederacy  or  plot.    Indeed,  so  much  malice  mingles  with 
most  that  is  recorded  of  Sappho,  and  so  much  confusion  has  arisen 
from  her  bearing  the  same  name  with  a  woman  of  entirely 
opposite  character,  that  it  is  difficult  to  arrive  at  a  correct  account 
of  her  life.    Unfortunately,  too,  her  poems,  which  obtained  her  so 
wide  a  renown,  are  little  better  known  to  us.    Few  of  them  have 
reached  our  time ;  though  the  majority  of  her  compositions  were 
extant  in  the  age  of  Horace.  They  are  said  to  have  consisted  of  nine 
books,  containing  a  variety  of  odes,  hymns,  epithalamia,  elegies, 
epigrams,  and  other  poems.    A  hymn  to  Venus,  an  ode  to  a  friend, 
and  sundry  brief  fragments,  are  all  that  nOw  remain  to  prove  how 
truly  Sappho  deserved  the  admiration  bestowed  upon  her  by  her 
contemporaries,  and  by  the  writers  of  antiquity.    But  these  few 
productions  afford  sufficient  proof  of  excellence  to  justify  the 
award  of  judges  who  were  acquainted  with  the  rest  of  her  works. 
Feeling,  warmth  of  expression,  elegance  of  diction,  felicity  of 
measure,  are  to  be  traced  in  such  excellence  as  to  warrant  her 


SAPPHO.  17 

being  ranked  liigli  among  lyric  jDoets;  and  tlie  specimens  that 
exist  of  lier  composition,  awaken  keen  regret  tkat  tlie  wliole  slionld 
not  liave  been  preserved, — not  only  for  tkeir  own  sake,  but 
because  of  tke  insigkt  tliey  would  bave  afforded  into  particulars  of 
Greek  sentiment,  as  exemplified  in  tlie  beart-effusions  of  sucli 
a  woman  as  Sappbo. 

A  poetess,  wbo  wrote  at  tbe  opening  of  tlie  fifteeutb  century, 
left  a  translated  fragment  from  one  of  Sappbo's  compositions, — and 
in  tbe  Sappbic  Stropbe.  Tbe  antiquated  Frencb,  gives  it  a 
remote  air,  in  accordance  witb  tbe  original  antique ;  and  tbe 
warmth  of  Clotilde  de  Surville's  style  in  expression,  assimilates 
completely  witb  that  of  the  Greek  poetess. 

"  Qu'a  mon  gre  cesto-la  va  primant  sur  les  dieux  ! 
Qu'enyvre  ton  soubriz,  sur  qui  ton  oeil  repoze, 
Qu'encharment,  resonnant  de  ta  bouche  de  roze, 
Les  sons  melodieus  ! 

Je  t'ai  vu — dans  men  sejn,  Venus,  qu'ay  toute  en  I'ame, 
Qui,  sur  levre  embrasee,  estouffoit  mes  accents, 
Venus  a  feux  subtils,  mais  jus  qu'ez  os  pergants. 

Court  en  fleuves  de  flame — 

S'ennuaigent  mes  yeulx  ;  n'oy  plus  qu'enmy  rumeurs ; 
Je  brusle,  je  languis ;  cbauds  frissons  dans  ma  vayne 
Circulent :  je  paslis,  je  palpite,  I'haleine 

Me  manque  ;  je  me  meurs, — 

["  How  she,  above  the  rest  of  Gods,  shines  beauteous  ! 
How  glows  thy  smile,  on  whom  thine  eye  reposes ; 
How  charm,  in  flowing  from  thy  mouth  of  roses. 
The  sounds  melodious ! 

I've  felt  thee,  Venus,  in  my  heart, — to  soul  it  came, — 
Stifling  my  accents  on  my  lips  that  burn'd, 
Venus,  with  subtle  fire,  to  my  very  bones  return'd 
Swift  in  waves  of  flame. 

3 


18 


SAPPHO. 


Cloud  my  moist  eyes ;  I  hear  but  murmur'd  sigh ; 
I  melt,  I  languish  ;  hot  thrillings  in  my  reins 
Fleet  through;  I  pale,  I  throb,  my  breathing  pains 
And  fails  me; — I  die."] 

Clotilcle  de  Surville  may  justly  be  called  the  Frencli  Sapplio, 
for  tliat  intense  glow  and  passionate  earnestness  wliicli  pervade 
her  beautiful  verses.  The  -poem  to  her  husband,  Berenger, — a 
young  knight  who  fought  under  Charles  VII.  in  the  wars  against 
England  and  Burgundy— breathes  the  very  soul  of  conjugal 
fervour ;  and  the  stanzas  to  her  first-born,  are  instinct  with  the 
rapturous  delight  of  a  young  and  proudly  happy  mother.  A 
little  roundel,  graced  by  the  most  playful  and  womanly  spirit, — 
half  coy,  half  tender,  and  wholly  charming, — may  well  be  cited 
here,  in  an  account  of  Saj^pho,  the  love-poetess.  The  roundel  is 
addressed  to  Clotilde's  favourite  friend,  Eocca,  and  tells  of  a 
certain  stolen  kiss.    It  is  headed  : — 

Rondel  a  ma  doulce  mye  Eocca, 

Sur  ce  que  vinct  ung  soir  le  hel  amy  hayzer  mc  clesroher  a  la  fontaine. 

1422. 

Qu'au  cler  de  lune  ay  deduict,  se  me  voy 
Seulette  cz  bords  d'ung  crystal  de  fontaine  ! 
Ung  soir  y  vint  mon  espoulx  et  mon  roy ; 
Bayzer  m'y  prist :  ne  le  sentys  qu'  a  payne, 
Et  sy  pourtant  fus-je  toute  en  es  moy. 

Me  courrouciay  :  n'avoit  encor  ma  foy, 

(Si  bien  mon  coour,  car  I'eust  de  prime  aubaine;) 

Oncques  n'ozions  nous  dire  Tu  ny  Toy, 

Qu'au  cler  de  lune. 

Done  me  faschay ;  puys,  comme  il  se  tint  coy, 
Luy  pardonnay ;  sur  ce  diet :  "  0  ma  rayne  ! 
"  N'en  coustoit  plus  d'en  prendre  une  vingtaine, 
"  Se  I'avoy  sceu  !" — Fayz  done,  amy  :  pourquoy 
M'as  veu  de  nuict ;  n'est  tant  la  faute  a  moy, 
Qu'au  cler  de  lune. 


SAPPHO. 


19 


[Roundel,  to  jit  sweet  feiejstd,  Rocca; 

On  the  handsome  lover  coming  one  evening  and  stealing  a  Mssfrom  me  at  the 

fountain. 

1422. 

How  gladly,  by  moonlight,  I  find  me  alone 

By  the  brink  of  a  fountain's  bright  crystalline  glass  ! 

One  eve  came  my  husband,  my  king,  and  my  own  ; — 
A  soft  kiss  he  snatch'd ;  I  felt  it  scarce  pass, 

Yet  it  flutter 'd  nie,  ere  it  was  gone. 

I  pretended  to  pout : — he  wasn't  then  mine  ; 
(Yet  my  heart  was  fast  his,  from  the  very  first  dawn ;) 
Nor  then  did  we  venture  to  say,  "  Thou  and  Thine," 
But  by  light  of  the  moon. 

•  So,  I  pouted  !  tuen  as  he  kept  still 
I  forgave  him  — he  said  :  "0  my  queen  ! 
"  I  might  have  ta'en  twenty — and  twenty  I  will, — 
"  Had  I  known  !" — Take  them  sweetheart ;  thou'st  seen 
Me  by  night  time ; — the  fault's  not  my  ill, 

But  the  light  of  the  moon.] 

A  sliort  poem,  attributed  to  Sapplio,  lias  been  rendered  into 
Englisli  verse  by  one  wlio  is  worthy  to  be  called  a  sister  poetess. 
She  who  (if  it  were  only  for  those  exquisite  forty-three  sonnets  of 
Shakesperian  style ; — for  the  tender  pathos  of  her  "  Cater ina  and 
Camoens;"  and  for  the  condensed  passion  of  that  grand  little 
poem,  "  A  year's  spinning," — a.  world  of  emotion  in  seven  stanzas — ) 
richly  deserves  the  title  of  our  modern  Sappho, — Elizabeth  Bar- 
rett Browning,  has  given  us  the  opportunity  of  reading  this  grace- 
ful lyric,  beheved  to  have  been  written  by  the  famed  Lesbian. 
There  is  a  Grecian  zest,  and  flush  of  beauty  in  the  lines,  which 
makes  us  feel  it  properly  ascribed  to  Sappho. 


20 


SAPPHO 


SONG  OF  THE  ROSE. 

"  If  Zeus  chose  us  a  Kiug  of  the  flowers  in  his  mirth, 

He  would  call  to  the  rose,  and  would  royally  crown  it ; — 
For  the  rose,  ho,  the  rose  !  is  the  grace  of  the  earth. 

Is  the  light  of  the  plants  that  are  growing  upon  it ! 
For  the  rose,  ho,  the  rose  !  is  the  eye  of  the  flowers. 

Is  the  blush  of  the  meadows  that  feel  themselves  fair, — 
Is  the  lightning  of  beauty,  that  strikes  through  the  bowers 

On  pale  lovers  who  sit  in  the  glow  unaware. 
Ho,  the  rose  breathes  of  love  !  ho,  the  rose  lifts  the  cup 

To  the  red  lips  of  Cypris  invoked  for  a  guest ! 
Ho,  the  rose  having  curl'd  it's  sweet  leaves  for  the  world 

Takes  delight  in  the  motion  its  petals  keep  up. 
As  they  laugh  to  the  Wind  as  it  laughs  from  the  west.'' 

Sappho  possessed  tliat  rare  gift, — ^genius.  She  merited  the 
names  bestowed  upon  her,  of  "  Tenth  Muse,"  and  "  Divine 
Poetess not  merely  because  she  was  accomplished  in  writing 
poetry,  but  because  she  was  endowed  with  creative  faculty.  She 
had  invention,  and  originality  of  resource.  Her  love  of  Poesy 
insj)ired  her  with  power  to  add  fresh  beauty  to  the  anthology  of 
Greece ;  composing  in  metres  of  her  own  design,  and  devising  a 
peculiar  versification,  named  after  her,  the  Sapphic  Strophe  ;  a  me- 
trical construction  which  has  been  frequently  imitated  in  ancient 
and  modern  times.  Horace  has  many  Odes  in  the  Sapphic 
Strophe,  the  ode  to  Augustus  Caesar  (the  second  in  the  first  Book) 
being  one.  It  consists  of  three  verses,  and  a  fourth  (of  two  feet), 
termed  the  Adonic  verse. 

Sappho's  ear  in  rhythmical  construction,  and  her  passion  for 
music,  enabled  her  to  carry  her  creative  genius  into  that  art  also ; 
for  Aristoxenus  affirms,  that  to  Sappho  must  be  assigned  the  honour 
of  having  invented  Mixolydian  harmony,  so  well  adapted  for  the 
expression  of  tragic  and  serious  feeling.    She  is  also  said  to  have 


SAPPHO 


21 


been  the  inventor  of  more  than  one  new  instrument,  and  of  the  jDlec- 
trum,  or  quill  with  which  lyres  were  struck,  in  sounding  their  strings. 

In  Sappho,  Milton's 

"  Sphere-born  harmonious  sisters,  Voice  and  Verse, 
Wed  their  divine  sounds  ;" 

And,  "to  our  high-rais'd  phantasy  present"  an  image  of  blended 
Art  dedicated  to  pseans  in  honour  of  Love,  that  deity  whose  own 
utterance  is  - 

"  Sweet  and  musical 
As  bright  Apollo's  lute,  strung  with  his  hair." 

After  her  death,  divine  honours  were  paid  her;  altars  and 
temples  were  raised  to  her  memory,  and  her  fame  spread  far  and 
wide.  Sicily  erected  a  statue  to  her ;  and  the  inhabitants  of  her 
native  Mitylene  stamped  Sappho's  image  on  their  coin.  This 
tardy  tribute  from  those  who  had  mahgned  her,  savoured  of 
anxiety  to  claim  reflected  honour  from  her  having-  been  born  among 
them,  although  they  could  not  properly  estimate  her  while  she 
lived  among  them;  but  posthumous  appreciation  brought  credit 
on  themselves,  where  value  during  her  existence,  swelled  her 
triumphs  only.  Dead  excellence  and  prosperity  are  more  readily 
forgiven  and  acknowledged,  than  while  flourishing  in  health, 
strength  and  beauty.  Sappho's  fair  name  was  blackened  at  a 
period  when  her  heart  still  beat  with  power  to  feel  proud  of  eulo- 
gium,  or  hurt  by  opprobrium  ;  but  when  cold  to  repute  or  injury 
alike,  popularity  crowned  her  ashes,  and  Envy  joined  in  heaping 
garlands  upon  one  whom  it  had  vilified.  Great  spirits  must  be 
content  to  draw  breath  amid  vulgar  detraction,  and  to  have  plau- 
dits clamoured  over  their  grave. 

Sappho  is  a  shining  exemplar  of  glowing  womanhood,  and  high 
genius  moulded  into  that  "  bright  particular  star"  of  humanity— 
a  Poetess. 


« 


:vi«  I. 


LUCPiETlA. 


LiJCEETiA  is  a  world-renowned  type  of  conjugal  faith  and  chastity. 
She  impersonates  Eoman  matron  purity,  unable  to  survive  out- 
raged self-respect.  Lucretia  was  the  daughter  of  Spurious  Lucre- 
tius Tricipitinus  ;  and  was  married  to  Lucius  CoUatinus,  a  member 
of  the  reigning  royal  family  in  Kome.  CoUatinus's  relationship  to 
the  Tarquins  could  not  preserve  him  from  the  injuries  of  one  of 
its  scions ;  while  it  ultimately  caused  his  own  downfal.  Through 
his  wife,  Lucretia,  he  was  the  victim  of  Tarquin  treachery ;  in  his 
own  person  he  became  a  sufferer  from  Tarquin  hatred,— the  hatred 
borne  by  the  people  towards  the  Tarquin  race.  This  wicked 
brood  were  signal  in  crime.  TuUia,  utterly  devoid  of  woman- 
hood, had  taken  her  sister's  husband  in  marriage,  after  murdering 
her  own ;  had  instigated  the  assassination  of  her  father  for  the  at- 
taining of  his  crown ;  and  had  summed  her  filial  infamy  by  driving 
her  chariot  wheels  over  her  parent's  scarce-dead  body.  Tarquin, 
surnamed  Superbus,— from  his  insolence  of  pride,— wielded  the 
sceptre  he  had  gained  by  blood  with  tyranny  and  injustice.  To 
stifle  the  murmurs  of  the  people  at  his  extravagant  and  reckless 
expenditure  of  the  public  treasury,  he  engaged  his  subjects  in 
war.  Sextus  Tarquin  combined  those  qualities  that  the  son  of 
such  a  father  might  naturally  inherit.    Self-willed,  sensual,  treach- 


24  LUGirETIA. 

erous,  and  cruel,  he  liesitated  at  no  deed  tliat  miglit  secure  tlie 
gratification  of  his  own  evil  passions.  The  history  of  the  period, 
as  related  by  Livy,— and  poetically  told  by  Ovid,— forcibly  pour- 
trays  the  character  of  all  those  connected  with  the  sad  tale  of  Lu- 
cretia's  wrongs  besides  recording  the  black  event  which  forms  the 
small  but  fatal  amount  of  what  we  know  concerning  herself. 

Tarquinius  Superbus,  being  at  war  upon  Gabii,  a  Volscian 
city,  the  youngest  of  his  three  sons,  Sextus,  made  his  way  into  the 
enemy's  camp ;  and  when  their  swords  were  raised  to  destroy  him, 
bade  them  strike,  saying  that  it  would  obtain  them  favour  with  his 
barbarous  father,  who  had  maltreated  and  discarded  him.  He 
stripped  his  back  to  show  them  evidences  of  his  father's  ill-usage, 
in  the  lacerations  which  he  himself,  with  crafty  device,  had  pur- 
posely inflicted  there.    The  foes,  seeing  the  young  man's  condition 
(Ovid,  here,  has  a  beautiful  picturesque  touch  of  its  being  moon- 
light in  the  camp,  and  revealing  the  scars),  returned  their  swords 
to  the  scabbard,  commiserated  him,  bade  him  stay  with  them, 
and  take  arms  in  their  ranks.    The  impostor,  rejoicing  in  their 
simplicity,  accepted  the  offer;  and  when  he  found  his  credit 
among  them  confirmed,  he  despatched  a  trusty  messenger  to  his 
father,  inquiring  how  he  might  best  place  Gabii  within  his  power. 
The  message  w^as  delivered  to  the  king,  who  returned  no  answer, 
but  walked  up  and  down  his  garden,  as  if  in  reverie,  striking  off 
the  heads  of  the  tallest  flowers  (Livy  says  "  poppies,"— Ovid, 
"  lilies")  with  a  switch  he  held  in  his  hand.    The  man  went  back, 
recounting  that  the  Mug  had  spoken  no  word,  and  repeating  what 
he  had  seen.    The  wily  son  perceived  the  meaning  of  the  wily 
father.    He  immediately  put  to  death  the  principal  men  in  Gabii ; 
and  the  city,  deprived  of  its  chiefs,  opened  its  gates  to  the  Ro- 
mans. 

King  Tarquin  proceeded  with  his  extravagant  outlay  in  Rome. 


LUCRETIA.  ■  25 

But  in  the  midst  of  these  costly  works,  an  ominous  event  occurred 
which  inspired  universal  fear.    A  serpent,  issuing  from  a  column 
of  wood,  spread  consternation  amongst  the  inhabitants  of  the  pa- 
lace, and  put  them  to  flight.    The  king,  at  first  but  little  alarmed, 
conceived  nevertheless  serious  uneasiness  respecting  the  future. 
The  Etruscan  soothsayers  were  usually  consulted  with  regard  to 
those  presages  which  threatened  public  wel&re ;   but  this  one, 
seeming  to  menace  his  own  family,  Tarquinius  Superbus  resolved 
to  consult  the  oracle  of  Delphos,  celebrated  throughout  the  world. 
At  the  same  time,  doubtful  what  might  be  the  answer  of  the  god, 
he  dared  not  confide  to  strangers  the  charge  of  goiug  to  receive 
it ;  he  therefore  sent  two  of  his  sons  into  Greece,  across  lands  then 
unknown,  and  over  seas  even  more  unknown.    The  princes,  Titus 
and  Aruns,  set  forth,  accompanied  by  the  son  of  Tarquinia,  sister 
to  the  king, — Lucius  Junius  Brutus, — who  was  of  a  very  different 
character,  in  reality,  to  what  he  professed  to  be  in  public.  Aware 
that  the  leading  men  in  the  state, — his  own  near  relatives  among 
others, — had  fallen  victims  to  the  sanguinary  oppression  of  Tar- 
quinius Superbus,  this  young  man  adopted  the  course,  thenceforth, 
of  allowing  nothing  to  appear  either  in  his  character  or  fortune  which 
might  give  umbrage  to  the  tyrant,  or  excite  his  cupidity ;  in  a 
word,  he  sought  from  the  contempt  of  those  around  him  that 
security  which  justice  afibrded  not.    He  feigned  to  be  half-witted, 
suffering  himself  to  become  the  laughing-stock  of  the  king,  aban- 
doning all  his  possessions  to  his  disposal,  and  accepting  the  oppro- 
brious surname  of  Brutus.    It  was  under  favor  of  this  title,  indi- 
cative of  brutish  incapacity,  that  the  future  liberator  of  Kome 
awaited  the  accomplishment  of  his  destiny.    Taken  to  Delphos  by 
the  young  Tarquins, — of  whom  he  was  rather  the  plaything  than 
the  companion, — he  carried  with  him  a  staff  of  camel- wood,  made 

hollow,  and  enclosing  a  wand  of  gold,  which  he  presented  as  his 
4 


2(5  ■  L  U  C  R  E  T  I  A . 

offering  at  tlie  shrine  of  the  god.  This  offering  mysteriously  em- 
blemed his  own  character;  at  the  same  time  that  it  served  his  pur- 
l^ose  of  shrouding  the  richness  of  the  gift  from  curious  eyes,  and 
conceahng  his  homage  to  the  oracle  under  the  guise  of  a  senseless 
deed.  Arrived  at  the  Delphic  goal,  the  young  princes,  after  ful- 
their  father's  behest,  had  the  curiosity  to  endeavour  to  ascer- 
tain  which  among  them  was  destined  to  succeed  to  the  throne  of 
Eome.  It  is  asserted  that  a  voice  replied  from  the  depths  of  the 
sanctuary :  "  He  among  you,  O  young  men,  will  attain  to  sovereign 
power,  who  first  shall  kiss  his  mother."  Titus  and  Aruns,  anxious 
lest  their  brother  Sextus  should  anticipate  them,  agreed  to  keep 
the  ansAver  of  the  oracle  a  secret,  and  prepared  to  hasten  back ; 
but  Brutus,  interpreting  otherwise  the  words  of  the  Pythian  sen- 
tence, pretended  to  stumble,  and  kissed  the  Earth,— common 
mother  of  all  mankind. 

On  their  return  to  Eome,  they  found  great  preparations  going 
on  for  war  against  the  Rutuh.  The  capital  of  the  dominions  of  the 
Eutuli  was  the  city  of  Ardea ;  and  their  nation  was  both  rich  and 
powerful.  War  was  declared  against  this  people  on  account  of 
the  financial  exhaustion  occasioned  by  the  costly  works  undertaken 
by  king  Tarquin,  who  sought  to  supply  the  deficiency  in  the 
public  treasury,  and  at  the  same  time  to  gain,  through  their  love 
of  booty,  the  liking  of  his  subjects.  For  the  Eomans,  fretting  be- 
neath his  arrogance  and  despotism,  resented  his  having  held  them 
so  long  in  labours  of  artisans  and  slaves.  At  first,  an  attempt  was 
made  to  carry  Ardea  by  assault ;  but  the  endeavour  was  unsuccessful. 
The  siege  took  the  form  of  a  blockade ;  and  the  enemy  was  driven 
within  the  walls.  During  this  blockade,  as  frequently  happens  in 
the  course  of  a  war,  less  fierce  than  prolonged,  furloughs  were  readily 
granted — although  rather  to  the  ofiieers  than  to  the  soldiers.  From 


L  U  C  R  E  T  I  A . 


27 


time  to  time,  the  young  princes  relieved  the  tedium  of  idleness  by 
banquets,  and  parties  of  festive  debauchery. 

One  day,  when  they  were  all  supping  with  Sextus  Tarquin — 
Lucius  CoUatinus  being  among  the  guests,— the  conversation  chanced 
to  fall  upon  their  wives ;  and  each  of  the  company  pronounced  an 
eulogium  upon  his  own  wife,  as  deserving  the  palm  of  excellence. 
The  discussion  growing  warmer,  CoUatinus  said  there  was  no  occa- 
sion for  so  many  words,  as  in  a  few  hours  they  might  prove  how 
completely  his  wife,  Lucretia,  surpassed  all  others.  "  If  we  be 
young  and  vigorous,"  added  he,  "  let  us  mount  on  horseback,  and 
go  and  assure  ourselves  of  the  merits  of  our  wives.  As  they  do 
not  expect  us,  we  can  judge  them  by  the  occupations  in  which  we 
find  them  engaged,  when  we  take  them  by  surprise." 

Well  may  Shakespeare  observe,  at  this  portion  of  the  story : — 

"  CoUatine  unwisely  did  not  let  * 
To  praise  the  clear  unmatched  red  and  white, 
Which  triumph'd  in  that  sky  of  his  delight ; 
Where  mortal  stars,  as  bright  as  heaven's  beauties, 
With  pure  aspects  did  him  peculiar  duties. 

For  he  the  night  before  in  Tarquin's  tent, 
Unlock'd  the  treasure  of  his  happy  state  ; 
What  priceless  wealth  the  heavens  had  him  lent 
In  the  possession  of  his  beauteous  mate  ; 
Reckoning  his  fortune  at  such  high  proud  rate, 
That  kings  might  be  espoused  to  more  fame, 
But  king  nor  peer  to  such  a  peerless  dame. 

Beauty  itself  doth  of  itself  persuade 
The  eyes  of  men  without  an  orator ; 
What  needeth,  then,  apologies  be  made 
To  set  forth  that  which  is  so  singular  ? 
Or  why  is  CoUatine  the  publisher 
Of  that  rich  jewel  he  should  keep  unknown 
From  thievish  ears,  because  it  is  his  own  ?" 


*  forbear. 


23  L  U  C  11  E  T  I  A . 

The  history  goes  on  to  relate  that,  heated  by  wine,  their  young 
bloods  fermenting  with  mingled  excess  and  excitement,  the  company 
accepted  the  husband's  rash  challenge.  "  Let  us  go !"  they  ex- 
claimed with  one  accord;  and  away  they  rode  at  Ml  speed  to 
Kome.  They  arrived  there  about  nightfall.  From  thence  they 
went  on  to  Collatia ;  where  they  found  the  king's  daughters-in-law 
with  their  young  companions  deep  in  the  enjoyment  of  a  sumptu- 
ous repast.  Lucretia,  on  the  contrary,  was  discovered  in  her 
private  apartment,  spinning  wool,  and  employed  amidst  her  women, 
at  a  late  hour  of  the  night.  Lucretia  was  awarded  all  the  honors 
of  the  challenged  comparison.  She  received  with  courtesy  the 
young  Tarquins  and  her  husband ;  who,  proud  of  his  victory,  invited 
the  princes  to  remain  with  him.  Then  it  was,  that  Sextus 
Tarquin  conceived  the  infamous  desire  to  obtain  possession  of  Lu- 
cretia, even  were  it  at  the  price  of  crime.  Besides  her  modest 
beauty,  which  kindled  his  unholy  flame,  her  reputation  for  stain- 
less virtue  excited  his  vanity,  and  inspired  him  with  double  incen- 
tive to  attempt  the  triumph  over  this  admirable  woman ;  and  it  is 
to  be  observed, — as  a  proof  of  Lucretia's  character  for  invincible 
purity, — that  Tarquin  never  once  entertained  any  other  idea  than 
that  of  prevaihng  by  force.  He  knew  that  persuasion  or  seduction 
were  hopeless.  After  finishing  the  night  in  diversions  befitting 
thek  age,  the  young  men  returned  to  the  camp. 

Some  few  days  afterwards,  Sextus,  unknown  to  Collatinus, 
returned  to  Collatia,  accompanied  by  a  single  attendant.  As  his 
designs  were  suspected  by  no  one,  he  was  welcomed  with  kind- 
ness ;  both  on  account  of  his  royal  rank,  and  as  being  a  kinsman 
of  Collatinus,  the  master  of  the  house.  After  supper,  he  was  con- 
ducted to  the  apartment  prepared  for  him ;  where,  burning  with 
illicit  passion,  he  impatiently  awaited  the  retirement  of  the  house- 
hold to  rest.    At  length,  judging  by  the  silence  which  prevailed. 


1 


L  U  C  R  E  T  I  A  . 


29 


that  all  were  asleep,  lie  drew  his  sword,  and  crept  to  the  bedside 
of  Lucretia,  whom  he  found  in  a  deep  slumber.  Placing  his  hand 
heavily  upon  her  bosom  to  prevent  her  stirring,  he  hoarsely  whis- 
pered : — ^"  Silence,  Lucretia  !  I  am  Sestus.  My  sword  is  in  my 
hand ;  and  you  die  if  you  breathe  one  word."  Lucretia,  awakened 
abruptly  out  of  sleep,  dumb  with  terror,  defenceless,  beholds  death 
impending  over  her,  and  hears  Tarquin  pouring  forth  his  insults 
of  passionate  declaration ;  pressing,  beseeching,  threatening,  by 
turns,  and  conjuring  her  by  all  he  deems  most  capable  of  moving 
a  woman's  heart. 

But  finding  that  she  only  became  the  more  confirmed  in  reso- 
lution and  resistance,  and  that  even  the  fear  of  death  could  not 
shake  her  constancy,  he  tried  to  alarm  her  fears  for  her  reputation. 
He  protested,  that  after  having  killed  her,  he  would  place  beside 
her  dead  body  that  of  a  murdered  slave,  in  order  to  make  it 
believed  that  she  had  been  stabbed  in  the  act  of  adulterous  sin. 
Vanquished  by  this  horrible  dread,  the  inflexible  chastity  of  Lu- 
cretia yielded  to  the  brutality  of  Tarquin ;  and  he,  proud  of  his 
ignominious  triumph,  departed  back  to  the  camp.  Lucretia,  over- 
whelmed by  the  magnitude  of  her  misfortune,  sent  a  messenger  to 
Eome  and  to  Ardea,  to  entreat  her  father  and  her  husband  w^ould 
hasten  to  her,  each  accompanied  by  a  sure  friend,  as  a  fearful 
event  had  occurred  which  demanded  their  immediate  presence. 

Spurius  Lucretius  came  with  Publius  Valerius  ;  and  CoUatinus, . 
with  Brutus.  The  two  latter  were  returning  to  Kome  in  company, 
when  they  were  met  by  Lucretia's  messenger.  They  found  her 
seated  in  her  apartment,  attired  in  mourning  weeds,  and  plunged 
in  the  profoundest  grief.  On  the  appearance  of  her  friends,  she 
burst  into  tears ;  and  upon  her  husband's  eager  questioning  as  to 
the  cause  of  her  agitation,  she  brokenly  recounted  the  irreparable 
wrong  and  misery  that  had  befiiUen  them  both. 


30  LUCRE  TIA. 

'  Refusing  all  comfort,  and  all  attempt  to  persuade  her  that  she 
was  virtually  innocent,  since  her  will  had  taken  no  part  in  the  foul 
deed  committed,  she  drew  a  dagger  from  beneath  her  robe,  stabbed 
it  to  her  heart,  and  dropped  expiring  at  the  feet  of  her  husband 
and  father. 

While  they,  stricken  with  dismay,  abandoned  themselves  to 
their  grief,  Brutus  drew  forth  from  her  bleeding  bosom  the  reek 
ing  dagger,  and  holding  it  aloft,  exclaimed : — "  Hear  me  swear,  O 
ye  gods ! — and  you,  friends,  bear  me  witness ! — I  swear  by  this 
innocent  blood, — so  pure  before  the  outrage  it  received  from  this 
hateful  son  of  kings  !  I  swear,  to  pursue  Avith  fire  and  with  steel, 
with  all  means  in  my  power,  the  haughty  Tarquin,  his  guilty 
wife,  his  infamous  son,  his  whole  hateful  race,  and  to  endure  no 
kings  in  Rome — neither  these,  nor  any  other  !"  He  then  gave  the 
dagger  into  the  hands  of  CoUatinus,  of  Lucretius,  and  of  Valerius ; 
all  of  them  amazed  at  this  marvellous  change  in  a  man  hitherto 
regarded  among  them  as  half-witted.  They  rejoeated  the  prescribed 
vow  to  extirpate  the  accursed  Tarquin  race  ;  and,  passing  at  once 
from  grief  to  thoughts  of  vengeance,  they  followed  Brutus,  who 
called  them  forth  to  the  immediate  destruction  of  royalty  in  Rome. 
They  bore  the  dead  body  of  Lucretia  with  them  into  the  public 
place  of  the  city  ;  where, — as  they  expected, — ^this  eloquent  spec- 
tacle, in  its  bleeding  evidence  of  the  ruthless  violence  and  outrage 
of  the  king's  son,  excited  universal  horror  and  indignation. . 

"  To  see  sad  sights  moves  more  tlian  hear  tliera  told  • 
For  then  the  eye  interprets  to  the  ear 
The  heavy  motion  that  it  doth  behold, 
When  every  part  a  part  of  woe  doth  bear." 

Lucretia's  hapless  fate  sealed  the  fate  of  the  Tarquins,  and  with 
it,  that  of  the  regal  dynasty.  The  expulsion  of  the  reigning  family 
was  followed  by  the  election  of  Brutus  and  Collatinus  to  consular 


LUCRETIA. 


31 


power ;  and  an  annual  consulsliip  was  substituted  for  monarchical 
government. 

When  Lucius  Junius  Brutus  died,  funeral  honors  were  pul)-  ' 
licly  paid  him.  The  senators,  whom  Brutus  had  raised  in 
number  to  three  hundred,  came  to  receive  his  body  at  the  gates 
of  the  city,  it  being  brought  to  Rome  from  the  field  of  battle  ;  and 
the  Roman  matrons  wore  a  year's  mourning  for  him,  as  the  avenger 
of  Lucretia.  His  statue  was  erected  in  the  Capitol,  bearing  in  the  ' 
hand  a  dagger. 

Sextus  Tarquin  was  not  long  subject  either  to  the  stings  of 
remorse,  or  to  the  rejoroaches  of  his  family  for  being  the  cause  of 
their  downfal.  He  retired  to  the  city  of  Grabii,  where  he  held 
command ;  and  perished  there  soon  after. 

Lucretia's  death  took  place  in  the  year  244  of  the  Roman  era, 
—509  B.  C. 

This  narrative  of  Lucretia,  has,  of  course,  closely  adhered  to 
the  historical  account ;  but  it  is  interesting  to  trace  the  different 
representations  of  her  S23eech  and  demeanour — at  the  point  in  her 
sad  story  where  her  husband  and  friends  come  to  her  on  the 
morning  after  the  outrage — as  variously  given  by  those  who  have 
depicted  the  scene.  Livy,  with  the  staidness  of  a  historian,  and 
the  patriotic  bent  of  a  Roman,  records  the  address  of  the  Roman 
matron,  Lucretia,  to  her  husband,  in  words  which  convey  the  idea 
that  she  seeks  to  urge  his  indignation  to  take  the  shape  of  revenge 
upon  her  undoer,  to  turn  her  wrongs  into  a  means  of  redressing 
those  of  Rome ;  and  while  pleading  her  cause  with  her  injured 
friends,  inciting  them  to  make  it  one  with  that  of  the  oppressed 
Romans,  groaning  beneath  Tarquin  tyranny.  She  seems,  in 
this  writer's  pages,  less  occupied  with  the  horror  and  pain  of  the 
revelation  she  has  to  make,  than  solicitous  to  convert  it  into  a 
source  of  future  avenging  retribution.    She  brings  forward — 


32 


LUCRETIA. 


almost  witli  unfeminine  coolness — tlie  circumstances  that  may  be 
pleaded  in  extenuation  of  lier  unliappy  fall ;  and  receives  the  con 
soling  assurances  of  her  husband  and  friends,— that  as  her  will 
had  no  part  in  the  foul  deed,  she  cannot  be  accounted  culpable, — 
more  like  arguments  that  require  answering,  than  soothings  of  her 
affliction.  Upon  their  telling  her  that  when  the  spirit  is  innocent, 
the  body  is  guiltless,  and  that  there  can  be  no  fault  committed 
-  where  the  intention  remains  pure,  she  replies,  "  It  is  for  you  to 
decide  upon  the  doom  of  Sextus.  For  myself,  if  I  absolve  myself 
from  crime,  I  cannot  exempt  myself  from  the  penalty.  Hence- 
forth., no  woman  surviving  her  shame,  shall  venture  to  cite  the 
example  of  Lucretia !"  And  she  forthwith  plunges  the  steel  into 
her  bosom,  and  dies. 

Ovid  has  told  the  Avhole  story,  in  the  second  book  of  his 
"  Fasti,"  with  great  beauty  and  tenderness.  At  the  point  in  ques- 
tion, he  describes  her  silence,  her  confusion,  her  troubled  aspect ; 
her  hidden  face,  her  streaming  tears,  her  hesitation  and  distress  in 
having  to  relate  the  circumstances  which  she  has  summoned  her 
husband  and  father  to  hear.  He  has  given  to  their  words  a 
manly  belief  in  the  goodness  of  her  they  love,  a  noble  confidence 
in  her  faith  and  virtue.  "  Thou  hast  not  failed  in  truth  or 
purity !"  they  exclaim ;  "  thou  yieldedst  to  violence  !"  And  to 
her  speech  he  has  imparted  a  womanly  tenderness,  very  character- 
istic of  her  modest  worth, — gentle,  yet  firm  and  constant  to  her 
own  conviction  of  right :  "  You  pardon  me !"  she  returns,  "  but 
I, — I  cannot  pardon  myself!"  And  she  falls,  self-struck,  at  their 
feet. 

Chaucer  has  a  similar  touch,  here,  with  the  Latin  poet ;  indeed 
his  "Legend  of  Lucrece,"  is,  all  through,  almost  a  paraphrase  of 
many  of  the  passages  in  Ovid.  The  touch  adverted  to,  is  strictly 
in  keeping  with  the  character  of  the  chaste  Lucretia,  marking  her 


LUCRETIA. 


33 


scrupulous  modesty  in  the  very  last  act  of  lier  dying  moments. 
The  old  Saxon  poet  tells  it  in  liis  own  quaintly  simple  style  : — 

"  But  privily  she  caugbten  forth  a  knife, 
And  tlierewitlial  she  reft  herself  of  life, 
And  as  she  fell  adown,  she  cast  her  look, 
And  of  her  clothes  yet  good  heed  she  took  ; 
For  in  her  falling,  yet  she  had  a  care, 
Lest  that  her  feet  or  suche  things  lay  bare  ; — 
So  well  she  loved  cleanness,  and  eke  truth."  "■  ■ 

Chaucer's  description  of  her  manner  when  faltering  out  the 
terrible  revelation  she  has  to  make  to  her  husband  and  friends, 
forms  also  a  graceful  parallel  with  Ovid's  diction ;  but,  as  usual, 
Shakespeare  transcends  them  all,  in  his  wording  of  the  circum- 
stance. The  pathos,  the  delicacy,  the  bashful  reluctance,  the  wifely 
and  impassioned  regret  for  Ids  scike^  which  Shakespeare  has  thrown 
into  Lucretia's  speech  to  CoUatiuus  are  comjDletely  his  own. 

"  And  now  this  pale  swan  in  her  watery  nest 
Begins  the  sad  dirge  of  her  certain  ending  : 
(Few  words),  quoth  she,  shall  fit  the  trespass  best, 
Where  no  excuse  can  give  the  fault  amending : 
In  me  more  woes  than  words  are  now  depending , 
And  my  laments  would  be  drawn  out  too  long, 
To  tell  them  all  with  one  poor  tired  tongue. 

Then,  be  this  all  the  task  it  hath  to  say  : 
Dear  husband,  in  the  interest  of  thy  bed 
A  stra.nger  came,  and  on  that  pillow  lay 
Where  thou  wast  wont  to  rest  thy  weary  head ; 
And  what  wrong  else  may  be  imagined 
By  foul  enforcement  might  be  done  to  me, 
From  that,  alas!  thy  Lucrece  is  not  free." 

In  this  early  poem  of  the  great  dramatist,  he  faintly  antici- 
pated some  of  those  exquisite  touches  which  afterwards  shone  forth 
with  such  refulgence  in  his  glorious  play  of  Cymbeline.    We  are 


34  LUCRETIA. 

reminded  of  Postliumus  Leonatus's  rasli  wager,  in  CoUatine's  boast 
and  challenge ;  of  Imogen's  fervent-cliaste  wifehood,  in  Lucretia's 
modest  dignity ;  and  of  lacMmo's  turpitude  in  Sextus  Tarquin's 
villainy.  Shakespeare,  like  his  brother  poets,  Ovid  and  Chaucer, 
told  the  story  with  full  homage  to  the  mingled  beauty  and  delicacy 
of  the  real  Lucretia ;  but  there  is  one  subtle  point,  which  perhaps 
only  the  painter  of  Imogen  would  have  thought  of  adding.  When 
Sextus  first  arrives : — 

"  He  stories  to  her  ears  her  husband's  fame, 

Won  in  the  fields  of  fruitful  Italy ; 
And  decks  with  praises  CoUatine's  high  name, 

Made  glorious  by  his  manly  chivalry, 
With  bruised  arms  and  wreaths  of  victory  : 
Her  joy  with  heav'd  up  hand  she  doth  express. 
And  wordless  so  greets  heaven  for  his  success." 

The  instinct  which  induces  even  the  intended  violator  to  make 
his  first  appeal  to  the  wife  through  her  husband's  praises,  is  pre- 
cisely one  of  the  thousand  instances  of  Shakespeare's  keen  percep- 
tion of  human  sentiment ;  while  Lucretia's  silent  drinking  in  of  the 
joy,  with  devout  exaltation  of  heart,  is  true  Imogen.  Afterwards, 
too,  when  Tarquin,  alone,  admiringly  recalls  her  beauteous  looks 
and  manner,  how  vividly  he  de])icts  the  innocent  unconsciousness 
of  Lucretia ;  reading  no  hint  of  the  unlawful  fire  that  flames  in  his 
eyes,  and  seeing  nothing  there  save  interest,  as  she  thinks,  for  him 
she  loves. 

"  Quoth  he,  she  took  me  kindly  by  the  hand, 
And  gaz'dfor  tidings  in  my  eager  eyes, 
Fearing  some  hard  news  from  the  warlike  band, 

Where  her  beloved  CoUatinus  lies. 
0  how  her  fear  did  make  her  colour  rise  ! 
First  red  as  roses  that  on  lawn  we  lay, 
Then  white  as  lawn,  the  roses  took  away." 


LUCEETIA. 


35 


The  two  stanzas  pourtraying  Lucretia  as  slie  lies  asleep,  so 
beautifully  prefigure  tlie  similar  passage  describing  Imogen,  tliat 
the  poet  himself  seems  reminded  of  his  own  former-written  picture  ; 
for  he  makes  the  Italian  lachimo  commence  the  lovely  speech 
with  these  words  : — 

"  Our  Tarquin  tlm 
Did  softly  press  the  rushes,  ere  he  waken'd 
The  chastity  he  wounded. — Cytherea, 
How  bravely  thou  hecom'st  thy  bed  !  fresh  lily, 
And  whiter  than  the  sheets  !  That  I  might  touch  ! 
But  kiss ;  one  kiss  ! — Rubies  unparagon'd  "■  ■ 

How  dearly  they  do't !— 'Tis  her  breathing  that 
Perfumes  the  chamber  thus :  the  flame  o'  the  taper 
Bows  toward  her,  and  would  under-peep  her  lids 
To  see  the  enclosed  lights,  now  canopied 
Under  these  windows  ;  white  and  azure,  lac'd 
With  blue  of  heaven's  own  tinct." 

And  here  is  Lucretia  : — 

Her  lily  hand  her  rosy  cheek  lies  under, 
Cozening  the  pillow  of  a  lawful  kiss. 
Who,  therefore  angry,  seems  to  part  in  sunder 
Swelling  on  either  side  to  want  his  bliss. 
Between  whose  hills  her  head  intombed  is ; 
Where,  like  a  virtuous  monument,  she  lies, 
To  be  admir'd  of  lewd  unhallowed  eyes. 

Without  the  bed  her  other  fair  hand  was, 
On  the  green  coverlet ;  whose  perfect  white 
Show'd  like  an  April  daisy  on  the  grass. 
With  pearly  sweat,  resembling  dew  of  night. 
Her  eyes,  like  marigolds,  had  sheath'd  their  light, 
And  canopied  in  darkness  sweetly  lay, 
Till  they  might  open  to  adorn  the  day. 

The  subject  has  inspired  Ovid  with  a  delicacy  of  description 
unusual  to  him.  Those  passages  in  which  he  describes  Lucretia's 
personal  demeanour,  are  signalized  by  refined  beauty  and  grace  of 


3(3  LUCRE  TIA. 

womanhood.  The  one,  for  instance,  where  CoUatinus  brings  the 
young  men  to  his  home,  and  finds  the  wife  among  her  women, 
spinning  wool,  which  is  to  make  a  garment  for  her  absent  husband. 
She  hastens  them  at  their  work,  asking  news  of  the  war,  and 
haK  deploring  her  CoUatinus's  bravery,  which  ever  leads  him  into 
the  thickest  of  the  danger.  At  the  thought  of  his  peril,  her  heart 
turns  cold,  and  she  breaks  oflpj  weeping  at  the  image  her  own  fears 
have  conjured  up. 

["  Desinit  inlacrymas,  intentaque  fila  remittet. 
In  gremio  vultum  deposuitque  suum. 
Hoc  ipsum  decuit :  lacrymse  decuero  pudieani ; 
Et  facies  animo  dignaque  parque  fait. 
Pone  metum,  venio,  conjus  ait :  ilia  revixit ; 
Deque  viri  coUo,  dulce  pependit  onus." 

[A  version  of  which  may  be  thus  ventured  : — 

In  tears,  slie  ceased  :  tli'  extended  threads  lie  slack  ; 

Her  gentle  face  upon  her  bosom  droops ; 

Her  very  grief's  a  grace :  those  wifely  tears 

Beam  chastity, — that  look,  her  lofty  soul. 

'  Lay  by  your  fear  ;  I  come  !'  the  husband  cried  : — 

To  joy  restored,  on  OoUatinus'  neck 

She  flung  the  burthen  soft  of  love  and  welcome.] 

And  again,  in  the  crisis  of  her  calamity,  Ovid  thus  depicts  her 
helpless  innocence : — 

["  Ilia  nihil :  neque  enim  vocem,  viresquc  loquendi 
Aut  aliquidtoto  pectore  mentis  habct. 
Sed  tremit,  ut  quondam  stabulis  deprensa  relictis 
Parvasubinfestoquumjacet  agna  lupo  : 
Quid  faciat  ?  Pugnet  ?  vincetur  femina  pugnet : 
Clamet  ?  at  in  dextra,  qui  necet,  ensis  adest : 
Effugiet?  positis  regentur  pectoris  palmisj 
Nunc  primum  externa  pectora  taotamanu." 


LUCRE  TIA. 


[She,  mute  :  nor  voice,  nor  power  to  speak  one  word; 

No  conscious  force  throughout  her  soul  prevails  : 

But  trembling  lay,  as  lambkin  stray'd  from  fold, 

That  falls  beneath  the  fangs  of  ravening  wolf.  ■ '  ■ 

What  do  ?    Contend?    A  woman  fails  in  strife. 

Cry  out  ?    The  sword  is  there  at  hand  to  slay. 

Escape  ?    Her  bosom's  held  by  ruffian  clutch  ; 

That  bosom  now  first  soil'd  by  alien  hand.] 

Lucretia  is  one  of  tliose  womea  of  wliom  little  is  known  ; 
and  of  whom  nothing  would  be  known,  were  it  not  for  the  single 
point  in  lier  fate — its  catastrophe.  But  in  that  solitary  fact,  how 
much  is  revealed.  It  shows  forth  the  lustrous  chastity,  which,  but 
for  that  remorseless  assault,  would  have  been  content,  like  all 
modest  virtue,  to  remain  unasserted, — claiming  no  merit  for  its 
existence,  satisfied  with  its  simple  possession  as  a  part  of  woman- 
hood. Sir  Thomas  Browne  says : — "  Who  knows  whether  the 
best  of  men  be  known  ?  And  among  women,  such  distinction  is 
even  more  doubtful ;  since  it  is  the  peculiar  privilege  of  the  best 
womanly  virtue  to  remain  untrumpeted."  Lucretia's  chary  regard 
for  honor  is  no  more  than  that  which  exists  in  every  woman's 
heart ;  and  she,  like  the  rest  of  her  sex  worthy  the  name  of 
women,  would  gladly  have  treasured  it  secretly,  instead  of  being 
compelled  to  declare  it  openly,  had  her  destiny  so  permitted.  The 
writer  just  quoted,  remarks : — "  Happy  are  they  whom  privacy 
makes  innocent ;  and  Lucretia  would  have  been  happy,  had  she 
been  able  to  preserve  her  innocence  privately  and  quietly.  But, 
indignation  that  the  ideal  of  virtue  enthroned  within  her  soul 
should  be  desecrated,  resentment  that  her  husband's  honor  should 
be  defiled  in  her  person,  and  abhorrence  of  herself  when  she 
deemed  her  purity  impaired,  drove  her  from  her  peaceful  silence, 
and  she  felt  compelled  to  vindicate  her  reverence  for  conjugal 
chastity,  by  an  act  that  at  once  immortalized  her  wrongs,  and  her 
own  keen  sense  of  them. 


33  LUCRE  TIA. 

Wlieu  we  consider  the  age  in  wliicli  Lucretia  lived— five 
centuries  before  Cliristianity  liad  slied  its  elevating  influence  upon 
the  world —the  delicacy  of  her  character,  and  the  refinement  of  her 
conduct,  strike  us  as  pre-eminently  beautiful.  In  times  when 
rapine  and  violence  of  all  kinds  were  mercilessly  enacted,  when 
the  forcible  and  treacherous  seizure  of  the  Sabine  women  formed 
but  one  signal  instance  ampng  many  a  similar  act  of  outrage 
committed  during  incessant  wars  and  sackings  of  cities, — the  noble 
self-respect  of  Lucretia  wears  an  aspect  of  singular  dignity.  The 
sense  she  entertained  of  her  injury,  the  mode  in  which  she  sent  for 
her  husband  and  father  to  reveal  it  to  them,  and  the  self-immola- 
tion with  which  she  expiated  the  dishonour  they  had  sustained,  all 
bespeak  a  sentiment  and  refined  course  of  action  rare  indeed  in 
those  periods.  And  yet,  the  way  in  which  Lucretia's  memory  has 
been  more  than  once  dealt  with,  affords  a  lamentable  instance  of 
the  strange  misconception,  and  unjust  misconstruction  from  which 
the  fairest  and  purest  of  humanity  have  not  been  exempt.  It 
might  be  thought  that  the  chaste  rectitude  of  this  virtuous-hearted 
woman,  must  have  ensured  its  own  clear  comprehension^  and  honest 
representation ;  but  on  the  contrary,  her  conduct  has  been  both 
misinterpreted  and  mis-stated.  St.  Augustin,  and  others,  have 
not  scrupled  to  assail  Lucretia  with  indecent  sneers;  making 
her  a  butt  for  the  shafts  they  level  at  paganism,  in  her  person. 
Well  may  Bayle  indignantly  observe : — "  The  reflections  cast  upon 
Lucretia  by  some  writers,  are  not  only  tasteless  jests,  but  frivolous 
quibbles  of  sophistry.  Her  yielding  to  Tarquin,  when  he  threat- 
ened to  kill  the  slave  and  place  him  beside  her  dead  body,  has 
been  twisted  into  an  accusation  that  she  preferred  maintaining  the 
semblance  of  virtue,  to  preserving  virtue,  that  she  sacrificed  honor 
for  the  sake  of  keeping  reputation,  and  that  good  name  was  dearer 
to  her  than  chastity  itself.    Her  self-inflicted  death,  too,  has  been 


•  L  U  C  R  E  T  I  A  .  39 

treated  as  a  crime, — judging  it  by  quite  other  standards  of  religion 
and  morality  tlian  tliose  wlaicL.  regulated  men's  belief  in  the  time 
of  Lucretia.    It  seems  impossible  that  such  distorted  views  of  her 
character  and  behaviour  could  be  other  than  wilful  misappre- 
hension.   Surely,  for  the  terrible  fear  that  took  possession  of 
Lucretia,  when  no  dread  of  immediate  death  to  herself  could 
subdue  her  firmness  of  resistance,  there  might  be  found  a  far  more 
powerful  motive  than  the  merely  selfish  anxiety  for  reputation.  It 
was  her  pang  of  conviction  that  she  must  live  dishonoured  in  her 
husband's  belief, — that  he  would  have   no  chance  of  learnino- 
the   truth, — that  he   would  never  know  in  what  unbroken 
faith  and  love  to  him  she  had  died,  that  she  would  be  found  in 
in  such  plight  as  left  no  possibility  of  CoUatinus  thinking  her 
innocent, — which  deprived  her  of  all  power  longer  to  resist.  She 
could  not — no  chaste  wife  could — afford  to  dwell  in  a  husband's 
remembrance  a  thing  so  fallen.    Kather  trust  to  his  generous 
"confidence  in  the  unswerving  fidelity  of  her  spirit,  while  revealing 
to  him  the  loathed  subjugation  of  her  too-weak  frame ;  and 
avenge  for  him,  by  her  own  death,  the  destruction  of  his  peace  and 
honor.    The  way  in  which  her  father  and  husband  both  received 
the  account  of  the  cruel  event  she  had  to  relate,  shows  the  esteem 
in  which  her  single-minded  character  was  held  by  them,  and  the 
thorough  reliance  they  had  upon  her  known  unspotted  truth. 
They  were  the  first  to  assure  her  that  she  was  innocent  in  their 
eyes;  they  knew  her  pure  heart,  and  firm  faith.     Upon  her 
avowal,  they  felt  at  once — ^knowing  her  virtue  and  strong  love  for 
them — that  she  could  not  have  voluntarily  yielded ;  and  that  she 
must  have  been  a  mere  passive  victim  of  brute  violence.  They 
had  no  unworthy  suspicions  of  the  integrity  of  her  motives ;  they 
knew  it  was  honour, — honour  itself, — and  reputation  as  part  of  hon- 
our, that  were  dear  to  her,  for  their  sakes  even  more  than  for  her 


LUCRETIA. 

own  ;  and  posterity  lias  no  liglit  to  judge  this  noble-spirited  woman 
less  candidly  tlian  tliose  manly  liearts  wlio  knew,  loved,  trusted, 
and  lost  her. 

To  sully  the  glory  of  Lucretia  with  scurril  insinuations,  is  to  act 
the  Tarquin  by  her  memory.  Lucretia  ought  not  to  be  despoiled 
of  the  radiant  crown  of  chastity  which  encircles  her  white  brow 
in  the  thoughts  of  succeeding,  generations. 


A  S  P  A  S I A . 


The  great  characteristic  of  Aspasia  was  intellect.  Her  powers  of 
mind  permitted  lier  to  take  rank  among  men ;  and  she  used  ker 
qualities  of  womanhood  but  as  a  means  to  bring  her  into  men's 
companionship.  She  lived  among  men,  she  thought  with  men ; 
she  was  a  man  herself,  in  every  particular  but  those  attractions  of 
her  sex  which  gave  her  additional  influence  in  winning  men  to 
share  their  intellect,  their  confidence,  and  their  hking  with  her. 

At  a  time  when  much  social  license  prevailed  in  the  ties  ap- 
pointed to  sanctify  the  intercourse  between  men  and  women,  and 
when,  also,  much  social  injustice  prevailed  in  the  legal  disabilities 
to  which  foreign-born  women  were  subject  in  Athens,  it  is  hardly 
to  be  wondered  at.  if  considerable  latitude  in  morals  obtained 
among  the  women  of  that  period.  A  native  of  Ionia,  Asj)asia  par- 
took of  the  soft  Asiatic  temperament ;  which,  blended  with  her 
virile  mind,  made  her  view  with  masculine  indifference  those  re- 
straints of  inclination  which  generally  form  an  integral  part  of 
womanhood.  Her  youth  was  as  devoid  of  strictness  as  that  of 
the  many  young  men,  whose  early  conduct  is  leniently  spoken  of 
as  folly,  indiscreet  fondness  for  pleasure,  and  "  sowing  wild  oats." 

Aspasia  was  born  in  the  city  of  Miletus  ;  and  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  Axiochus.    The  year  of  her  birth  is  not  recorded,  but  it 
6 


42 


A  S  P  A  S  I  A 


may  be  placed  somewliere  about  480  B,  C.  She  adopted  as  her 
model,  a  certain  Thargelia,  a  celebrated  courtezan,  whose  political 
and  literary  talents,  combined  with  personal  beauty,  had  enabled 
her  to  obtain  a  position  of  considerable  influence  in  the  state. 
This  Thargelia  confined  her  favours  to  the  highest  personages,  and 
chief  rulers  of  her  time  ;  and  being  not  only  extremely  handsome 
but  possessing  the  art  of  allurement  in  a  surpassing  degree,  she 
succeeded  in  establishing  an  intimacy  with  the  greatest  men  in 
Greece,  which  she  converted  into  a  means  of  winning  them  to  the 
interests  of  the  king  of  Persia.  Aspasia,  with  her  commanding 
intellect,  and  that  defective  moral  discipline  which  arose  out  of 
the  circumstances  stated,  came  to  Athens  with  the  intention  of 
cultivating  the  friendship  of  those  Grecians  pre-eminent  in  genius 
and  intelligence,  and  associating  with  them  on  terms  of  freedom 
and  equality.  The  Athenian  articles  of  faith  in  the  philosophy  of 
existence  made  it  almost  a  duty  to  luxuriate  in  life  to  intoxication. 
With  th-em,  indeed,  "to  enjoy  is  to  obey,"  formed  a  tenet  of  their 
social  creed ;  and  fully  did  they  yield  it  observance.  The  volup- 
tuous ease  of  their  repasts, — ^reclining  on  couches  as  they  fed  ;  the 
cost,  the  lavishness,  and  the  exquisiteness  of  their  viands  ;  the  rare- 
ness of  their  wines,  and  the  immoderate  quantities  in  which  they 
indulged ;  the  profusion  of  flowers  and  garlands  with  which  they 
heaped  their  goblets  and  themselves  at  their  feasts  ;  the  sensuous 
appreciation  of  Art ;  and  the  sensual  avidity  of  pleasure,  all  mark 
the  Greek  desire  to  taste  of  life  to  inebriation.  Alcibiades,  reel- 
ing in  at  the  banquet  of  Plato,  attended  by  flute-players,  "  crowned 
with  a  thick  crown  of  ivy  and  violets,  and  having  a  quantity  of 
fillets  on  his  head,  led  forward,  and  placed  against  the  door-post, 
excessively  drunk,  and  roaring  out,"  excites  no  disgust  in  his 
friends,  but  is  welcomed  among  them  with  laughter  and  delight. 
Finding  no  goblet  large  enough,  he  takes  a  wine-cooler,  holding 


A  S  P  A  S  I  A  .  43 

eight  cups,  lias  it  filled ;  drinks  it  off ;  lias  it  re-filled  ;  and  passes 
it  to  Socrates,  wlio  empties  the  draught;  and  another  of  the  com- 
pany observes  : — "  Shall  we  then  have  no  conversation  or  singing 
over  our  cups,  but  drink  down  stupidly,  just  as  if  we  were 
thirsty?"  This  gusto  of  debauchery,  mixing  intelligence  with 
indulgence,  and  blending  sense  with  gratification  of  the  senses,  is 
peculiarly  Greek,  and  belongs  to  that  Athenian  society  in  which 
Aspasia  figured.  Excess,  so  far  from  being  a  reproach,  was  an 
accomplishment.  It  was  an  evidence  of  constitutional  strength 
and  refinement  in  taste.  At  this  very  Platonic  banquet,  the  major- 
ity of  the  revellers  remain  till  cock-crow ;  some  sleeping  on  their 
couches  as  they  lay ;  others  deep-engaged  in  discussion.  Aristo- 
phanes, Agathon,  and  Socrates  "sat  it  out,  and  were  still  drinkino- 
out  of  a  great  goblet,  which  they  passed  round  and  round  ;  Socra- 
tes disputing  between  them,  on  the  foundations  of  the  tragic  and 
comic  Arts  being  essentially  the  same." 

The  Cynic  and  the  Stoic  philosophers  had  their  teachers  and 
their  disciples  ;  but  the  Epicurean  philosophy  ruled  in  that  social 
assemblage  where  Aspasia  was  the  centre  of  attraction.  Her 
strong  natural  capacity,  and  her  high  acquirements,  joined  to  a  fas- 
cinating manner,  made  her  the  admired  of  all  who  saw  her ;  and 
her  house  soon  became  the  resort  of  all  the  men  of  note  in 
Athens.  Socrates,  with  his  friends,  visited  her ;  and  it  is  said  that 
he  was  her  pupil  in  the  art  of  eloquence,  which  she  taught.  The 
elegiac  poet,  Hermesianax,  represents  Socrates  as  enamoured  of 
Aspasia ;  and  says,  that,  "  Venus,  avenging  herself  for  his  sage 
austerity,  mflamed  him  with  a  passion  for  the  gifted  Ionian ;  so 
that  his  profound  wisdom  occupied  itself  thenceforth  in  the  frivo- 
lous cares  and  anxieties  of  love.  He  perpetually  invented  fresh 
pretexts  for  repairing  to  Aspasia's  house  ;  and  he,  who  had  unrav- 
elled the  truth  from  the  most  tortuous  sophisms,  could  not  find 


44  ASTASIA. 

the  clue  to  tlie  windings  of  liis  own  heart."  Tliat  Socrates  was 
one  of  her  admirers,  there  is  no  doubt;  he,  in  common  with  the 
host  of  discerning  men  who  flourished  at  that  period,  courted  her 
notice.  Alcibiades  also  was  among  her  guests ;  and  it  is  a  signifi- 
cant circumstance,  as  illustrative  of  the  social  code  with  regard  to 
morals  and  manners  then  prevailing  in  their  city,  that  the  Athe- 
nians who  frequented  her  house  brought  their  wives  with  them  to 
hear  her  discourse.  She  was  an  accomplished  mistress  of  oratory  ; 
her  usual  talk  was  distinguished  by  noble  expressions,  and  an  orig- 
inal turn  of  thought.  Grand  ideas  clothed  in  harmonious  lan- 
guage, was  a  faculty  pertaining  to  Greek  utterance.  The  conver- 
sation at  Aspasia's  was  instinct  with  intelligential  beauty ;  fine  in 
sentiment,  flowing  in  speech,  earnest  in  opinion,  graceful  and  elo- 
quent in  diction.  The  ease,  combined  with  refinement,  perspica- 
city, and  artistic  charm,  of  the  friendly  intellectual  meetings  at 
her  house,  were  such  as  to  render  access  to  them  a  coveted  privi- 
lege. 

Among  those  who  were  foremost  in  availing  themselves  of  this 
desired  gratification  was  Pericles.  He,  like  the  rest,  w^as  struck 
with  Aspasia's  brilliant  mental  endowments.  Himself  a  fine  orator, 
he  perfected  his  style  under  her  auspices.  Himself  a  governor,  he 
studied  government,  aided  by  her  enlightened  views,  and  acute 
penetration.  He  was  one  of  those  men,  not  afraid  to  believe  that 
his  own  manly  strength  of  understandiug  could  be  yet  farther  in- 
vigorated by  womanly  assistance.  Pericles  had  just  one  of  those 
natures  which, — ^haughty  and  reserved  with  fellow-men,  can  unbend 
if  it  discover  a  congenial-minded  woman ;  and  which,  with  large 
liberality,  not  only  generously  receives  this  feminine  sympathy, 
but  generously  yields  it  full  measure  of  acknowledgment.  Pericles 
eagerly  sought  the  support  which  he  felt  that  his  vigorous  intellect 
attained  in  the  opinions  and  counsels  of  Aspasia;  he  gladly  availed 


ASTASIA. 


45 


liimself  of  tlie  energetic  firmness  whicli  lier  woman's  spirit  added 
to  his  robust  judgment.  The  female  mind  lias  frequently  a  keen- 
ness in  perception,  and  an  almost  instinctive  quickness  of  foresight, 
which,  consociated  with  masculine  calmness  and  staidness  of  wis- 
dom, forms  an  all-potent  combination  of  intellectual  might.  Peri- 
cles, from  perceiving  this  point  of  reliance  afforded  him  by  Aspasia's 
mental  capacity,  grew  to  lean  upon  it  with  that  pleasant  feeling  of 
security,  which,  in  such  a  man's  breast,  produces  increased  liking. 
A  merely  deve?'  man,  upon  discovering  that  a  woman  assists  his 
judgment,  resents  her  ability,  and  dislikes  herself;  a  man  of  high 
mind  and  true  genius,  becomes  attached  in  proportion  as  he  finds 
correspondmg  qualities  in  the  woman  he  prefers. 

Pericles, — while  seeking  the  society  of  Aspasia,  as  a  brilliant 
and  accomplished  person  who  could  enliven  his  social  hours  with 
her  wit  and  information,  improve  his  intellectual  hours  by  her 
powers  of  oratory  and  knowledge  of  governmental  and  state  affairs, 
and  beguile  his  hours  of  recreation  by  her  taste  in  Art,  and  per- 
sonal fascination, — learned  to  love  her  for  herself.  His  love 
became  confirmed  and  genuine ;  it  became  that  higher  kind  of 
attachment,  founded  on  esteem  for  individual  quahties,  and  in- 
creased into  passionate  and  exclusive  preference,  which  is  not 
content  with  mere  casual  connection,  but  which  desires  the  bonds 
of  wedded  union  to  ensure  its  permanence.  Plato  says: — "They 
who  are  inspired  by  this  divinity  (the  Uranian  Venus)  seek  the 
affections  of  those  who  are  endowed  by  nature  with  greater  excel- 
lence and  vigour  both  of  body  and  mind.  And  it  is  easy  to  distin- 
guish those  who  especially  exist  under  the  influence  of  this  power,  by 
their  choosing  in  early  youth,  as  the  objects  of  their  love,  those  in 
whom  the  intellectual  faculties  have  begun  to  develope.  For  they 
who  begin  to  love  in  this  manner,  seem  to  me  to  be  preparing  to 
pass  their  whole  life  together  in  community  of  good  and  evil,  and 


46*  ASPASIA. 

not  ever  liglitly  deceiving  those  wlio  love  them  to  be  faithless  to 
their  vows." 

The  love  of  Pericles  for  Aspasia,  springing  from  this  blended 
predilection  for  her  accomplished  intellect,  and  affection  for  her 
attractive  graces,  could  no  longer  be  satisfied  with  possessing  her 
as  the  occasional  companion  of  his  lighter  moments ;  he  wished  to 
make  her  his  own  for  life,— to  have  her  constantly  by  his  side, 
during  the  remainder  of  his  existence.  He  had  been  married  to  a 
kinswoman,  a  widow,  formerly  the  wife  of  Hipponicus,  by  whom 
she  had  one  child,  named  Callias ;  but  neither  Pericles  nor 
she  caring  for  each  other,  they  mutually  agreed  to  be  divorced,  and 
they  were  thus  set  free.  Pericles  gave  her,  by  her  own  wish,  to 
another  husband ;  and  he  himself  immediately  espoused  the 
woman  of  his  choice,  Aspasia.  Plutarch  records,  in  his  "  Life  of 
Pericles,"  that,  so  dearly  loved  was  Aspasia  by  Pericles,  that  he 
never  went  out,  or  returned  home,  without  saluting  her  with  a 
kiss.  The  biographer  adds,  that  this  conjugal  caress  brought  many 
sneers  from  the  comedy-writers  of  the  time,  who  were  mighty 
facetious,  and  even  scurrilous,  upon  it.  But  Pericles,  like  all  great 
men,  had  many  enemies,  and  they  would  not  let  slip  any  occasion 
of  wounding  one,  whom  they  dared  not  attack  directly,  through  the 
person  of  those  dear  to  him. 

This  recorded  act  of  the  husband,  attesting  the  continuance 
and  quiet  fulness  of  his  joy  in  her  whom  he  had  made  his  wedded 
partner,  is  a  comprehensive  answer  to  the  malignant  attacks  upon 
Aspasia's  character,  which  the  comic- writers  of  the  time  took 
dehght  in  showering  upon  her.  There  is  not  the  slightest  ground 
for  believing  that  she  failed  in  the  most  perfect  truth  and  fiiith  to 
Pericles,  when  once  she  became  his.  And,  moreover,  there  is  upon 
record  a  sentence  of  hers  (quoted  as  related  by  ^schines,  a  disciple 
of  Socrates),  which  gives  evidence  of  her  possessing  a  true  insight 


ASPASIA.  47 

into  what  constitutes  tlie  fit  basis  for  married  union.  On  an  occa- 
sion when  Aspasia  was  seeking  to  effect  a  reconciliation  between 
Xenophon  and  his  wife,  she  wound  up  her  exordium  by  this  argu- 
ment : — "  From  the  moment  that  you  have  answered  to  yourself 
this  question,  that  there  is  not  upon  earth  a  better  man  or  more 
loveable  woman,  learn  to  recognize  and  enjoy  this  happiness  which 
is  mutually  allotted  yours, — you,  to  be  husband  to  the  best  of 
women,  you,  to  be  wife  to  the  best  of  men." 

Had  Aspasia  been  a  gross,  or  depraved  woman,  she  could  never 
have  inspired  the  rehant  fondness, — even  the  tenderly  calm  and 
confiding  attachment,  of  which  Pericles'  behaviour  to  her  gives 
evidence.  But  his  own  character  was  precisely  one  to  provoke  the 
hostile  feeling  of  inferior  natures.  His  commanding  abilities  cre- 
ated envy  even  while  they  inspired  respect ;  and  his  proud  spirit 
awakened  resentment  while  compelling  involuntary  allegiance. 
The  whole  man  is  visible  to  us,  in  Plutarch's  animated  account  of 
him.  The  description  of  his  manner  is  precisely  that  of  a  haugh- 
tily self-concentrated  disposition — exteriorly  sedate  from  inward 
elevation.  Thus :  "  He  grew  not  only  to  have  a  great  mind  and 
an  eloquent  tongue,  without  any  affectation,  or  gross  country 
terms ;  but  to  a  certain  modest  countenance  that  scantly  smiled, 
very  sober  in  his  gait,  having  a  kind  of  sound  in  his  voice  that  he 
never  lost  nor  altered ;  and  was  of  very  honest  behaviour  ;  never 
troubled  in  his  talk  for  any  thing  that  crossed  him,  and  many 
other  such  like  things,  as  all  that  saw  in  him,  and  considered  them, 
could  but  wonder  at  him." 

The  anecdotes  related  of  Pericles  are  equally  characteristic. 
We  are  told  how,  once,  some  idle"  fellow  took  it  into  his  head  to 
rail  at  Pericles  in  the  market-place,  reviling  him  to  his  face,  and 
following  him  up  and  down  during  the  whole  day  with  the  most 
villamous  words  he  could  use.    Pericles  took  all  quietly,  answered 


48  A  S  P  A  S  I  A. 

liim  no  word,  despatcliecl  siicli  matters  of  business  as  lie  liad  in 
liand,  until  niglitfall ;  wlien  he  went  composedly  home,  showing 
no  appearance  of  being  disturbed  in  the  least,  though  the  fellow 
still  followed  at  his  heels,  with  abuse  and  open  defamation.  When 
he  came  to  his  own  door,  it  was  quite  dark ;  and  his  people  ap- 
pearing, he  commanded  one  of  them  to  take  a  torch,  and  attend 
the  man  home  to  his  house.  This  mute  sarcasm,  so  coolly 
contemptuous  in  its  dignified  calm,  is  completely  the  haughty  spirit. 
His  reply  too,  when  the  people  complained  that  he  consumed  too 
much  of  the  pubhc  treasure  in  works  of  art ;  he  said : — "  Well 
then,  the  charges  shall  be  mine,  if  you  think  fit,  and  none  of  yours ; 
provided,  however,  that  no  man's  name  be  written  upon  the  works, 
but  mine  alone." 

Pericles  in  his  lofty  scorn  of  the  commonalty  while  providing 
for  their  advantage,  is  like  Coriolanus's  superb  disdain  of  what  he 
calls  "  our  musty  superfluity ;"  while,  the  way  in  which  Pericles 
showed  himself  superior  to  greed,  venality,  and  corruption,  recalls 
Brutus's  indignant  remonstrance  against  Cassius's  having  betrayed 
the  mercenariness  of  "  an  itching  palm." 

"  What !  shall  one  of  us, 
That  struck  the  foremost  man  of  all  this  world, 
But  for  supporting  robbers ;  shall  we  now 
Contaminate  our  fingers  with  base  bribes  ? 
And  sell  the  mighty  space  of  our  large  honours 
For  so  much  trash,  as  may  be  grasped  thus  ? — 
I'd  rather  be  a  dog,  and  bay  the  moon, 
Than  such  a  Roman." 

Not  only  was  Pericles  inaccessible  to  bribery,  but  he  never  in- 
creased his  own  patrimony  by  so  much  as  a  single  groat ;  although 
he  enriched  the  city  by  his  excellent  management,  and  brought  it 
to  a  high  state  of  wealth  and  greatness.  In  the  economy  of  his 
own  estate  and  household,  he  practised  admirable  thrift  and  hus- 


A  S  P  A  S  I  A. 


49 


bandry ;  so  tliat,  altliougli  his  prudence  Ibrouglit  upon  Mm  the 
imputation  of  being  illiberal  in  outlay,  from  tliose  wlio  were  ever 
on  tlie  watcli  to  malign  liis  acts,  yet  it  ensured  him  a  well-ordered 
establishment,  with  easy,  and  even  affluent  circumstances.  This 
wise  strictness  enabled  him  to  be  beneficently  charitable  to  the 
poor,  and  munificently  generous  to  those  less  jDrovident  than  him- 
self; for  when  his  dearest  friend,  Anaxagoras,  having  been  careless 
in  expenditure,  fell  into  distress,  Pericles  hastened  to  him,  and  con- 
jured him  to  accept  of  help,  with  an  earnestness  and  delicacy 
of  representation, — as  if  the  favour  were  done  to  himself  and  not  to 
his  friend,— that  is  in  perfect  keeping  with  the  character  of  the 
noble-spirited  man. 

Pericles'  love  of  Art,  and  energetic  promotion  of  its  cultivation 
among  the  people,  is  one  of  the  points  which  evinces  where  the 
sympathy  and  assistance  of  such  a  wife  as  Aspasia  would  be  in- 
valuable to  him.  He  ordered  public  entertainments  for  the  gratifi- 
cation of  the  populace ;  and  instituted  games,  wherein  music  had  a 
predominant  share  ;  he  appointed  certain  feast-days  for  their  cele- 
bration, presided  at  them  himself,  adjudged  the  rewards  to  the 
most  deserving  among  the  performers,  and  provided  for  the  future 
continuance  of  these  refining  pastimes.  He  was  a  patron  of  the 
renowned  sculptor,  Phidias  ;  whom  he  employed  in  designing  and 
constructing  the  image  of  the  goddess  Minerva,  which  was  cast 
in  brass,  and  covered  with  gold.  He  erected  magnificent  buildings 
on  the  Acropohs  ;  thus  supplying  the  artisans  with  constant  work, 
and  introducing  a  higher  taste  among  them.  He  placed  theatrical 
representations  within  the  power  of  the  poorer  orders  to  enjoy, 
and  gave  them  at  once  a  source  of  instruction,  recreation,  and  en- 
nobling ideas. 

He  was  like  the  king  of  a  republic ;  and  enacted  the  part  of 

a  monarch  in  a  commonwealth.    He  was  potent  from  force  of 
7 


50 


A  S  P  A  S  I  A. 


enliglitenment,  and  not  from  arbitrary  dictation.  He  prevailed  by 
dint  of  natural  superiority,  not  by  tyranny.  He  was  only  a  des- 
pot in  so  far  as  a  commanding  judgment,  and  a  will  capable  of 
carrying  out  its  wise  conceptions,  its  virtuous  aims,  and  its  benefi- 
cial purposes  act  despotically ;  tbat  is,  from  tlie  despotism  of  in- 
evitable result,  and  not  from  tlie  despotism  of  irresponsible  do- 
minion. SucIl  judgment  and  will  as  those  of  Pericles,  operate 
upon  his  country  and  his  age,  almost  independently  of  their  posses- 
sor's intentions, — out  of  their  own  intrinsic  necessity  to  produce 
important  and  lasting  effects.  He  was  gifted  with  a  prevision  of 
comprehension  greatly  in  advance  of  his  time, — a  sure  mark  of 
original  genius.  He  was  singularly  free  from  superstition ;  and 
viewed  with  the  calmness  of  a  superior  mind,  those  portents  which 
dismayed  the  ignorant.  He  was  versed  in  Natural  Philosophy ; 
which,  as  Plutarch  nobly  says,  "  yielding  a  knowledge  of  the  causes 
and  reasons  of  such  ominous  signs,  instead  of  a  fearful  superstition, 
brings  true  religion,  with  assured  hope  of  goodness."  The  anec- 
dote of  Pericles  and  the  solar  eclipse,  is  an  illustrative  case  in 
point.  A  certain'  expedition  being  afoot,  his  men  were  shipped, 
and  the  vessel  about  to  sail,  when  suddenly  there  was  a  great 
eclipse  of  the  sun ;  the  clay  was  very  dark,  so  that  the  army  were 
stricken  with  a  universal  panic,  dreading  some  overwhelming  mis- 
chance was  about  to  l^efal  them,  from  the  threatening  of  this  evil 
token.  Pericles,  seeing  the  master  of  his  galley  stand  amazed,  as 
if  not  knowing  what  to  do,  cast  his  cloak  over  the  man's  face,  and 
hid  his  eyes,  asking  him  whether  he  thought  that  any  harm  or 
not.  The  master  answerino;  that  he  thoucrht  it  none,  Pericles  said : 
— "  There  is  no  difference  between  this  and  that ;  saving  that  the 
body  which  maketh  the  darkness,  is  greater  than  my  cloak  which 
bideth  thine  eyes." 

Another  instance  of  Pericles'  enlightened  mind,  is  his  abhor- 


ASPASIA.  51 

rence  of  the  cruelties  of  war.  When  he  was  chosen  general  of  the 
Athenian  army,  he  was  much  esteemed,  because  he  ever  paid 
regard  to  the  safety  of  his  soldiers.  By  his  own  good-will  he 
would  never  hazard  a  battle,  which  he  saw  might  have  doubtful 
issue,  or  incur  much  loss  of  life ;  and  moreover,  he  never  praised, 
as  good  generalship,  those  actions,  in  which  victory  was  obtained 
by  great  peril  of  the  men ;  since  he  often  said,  that,  "  if  none  but 
himself  led  them  to  the  shambles,  they  would  be  immortal." 

This  aversion  from  bloodshed  caused  him  comforting  reflection 
in  his  last  moments ;  for  when  those  standing  about  his  death-bed 
enumerated  his  noble  acts,  and  counted  up  the  number  of  victories 
he  had  won  when  general  of  the  Athenian  armies,  amounting  to 
nine  foughten  battles  crowned  with  success  to  his  country,  he  told 
the  speakers  that  he  "  wondered  they  should  so  highly  praise  him 
for  what  many  other  captains  had  achieved  as  well,  while  they  for- 
got to  mention  the  best  and  most  note-worthy  thing  he  had  done ; 
which  was,  that  no  Athenian  had  ever  worn  a  black  gown  through 
his  occasion."  This  rejoicing  of  the  dying  spi^'it  that  it  should  be 
free  from  the  stain  of  blood-guiltiness,  and  the  exulting  of  the  con- 
science at  having  no  such  haunting  memory  to  oppress  it  with  a 
sense  of  crime,  is  in  accordance  with  the  true  essence  of  Christian- 
ity ;  and  affords  a  lesson,  from  heathen  example,  that  many  a  pro- 
fessed Christian  might  advantageously  take  home  to  his  bosom. 

The  wai-mth  that  Pericles  showed  in  his  friendship  is  consist- 
ent with  that  peculiar  concentration, — a  combination  of  fervour 
with  reserve — which  characterised  him.  His  attachments  were 
few  and  exclusive,  but  they  were  intense.  The  regard  which  he 
had  for  Anaxagoras  was  strong  and  steadfast.  It  was  from  this 
serene-hearted  philosopher,  that  he  imbibed  those  habits  of  self- 
controul,  and  sedate  demeanour,  which  enabled  him  to  maintain  so 
tranquil  a  countenance  in  the  midst  of  insult  and  vexation : — ii 


0.  OF  lU-  LIB. 


52 


A  S  P  A  S  I  A 


was  from  liim,  too,  that  Pericles  drew  those  lessons  in  Natural 
Philosophy  which  rendered  him  impassive  to  the  superstitions  of 
his  time.  That  Anaxagoras  fully  deserved  the  esteem  of  Pericles, 
we  know, — if  it  were  Lut  for  those  two  beautiful  incidents  recorded 
in  tlie  life  of  the  j)hilosopher.  First ;  that  when  he  was  informed 
the  Athenians  had  condemned  him  to  die,  his  quiet  reply  was : 
— "  And  Nature  them."  Second ;  that  when  asked  what  he 
would  have  done  in  commemoration  of  him,  he  requested  that  the 
cliildreu  of  Athens  might  have  a  holiday  on  the  anniversary  of  his 
death. 

The  philosophy  of  Pericles, — a  perfectly  Grreek  one,  and  quite 
in  consonance  with  the  teaching  derived  from  so  bland  a  nature  as 
that  of  Anaxagoras, — was,  that  life  is  a  thing  to  be  enjoyed  ;  and 
death,  a  thing  not  to  be  feared. 

The  most  powerful  sentiments  of  such  natures  as  that  of 
Pericles  are  always  jealously  guarded  from  observation;  and  the 
firmness  with  which  he  bore  the  majority  of  trials, — even  very 
severe  ones, — makes  the  single  occasions  when  the  strong  proud 
heart  gave  way  to  uncontroulable  emotion,  only  the  more  pathetic. 
But  twice  in  his  life  was  Pericles  known  to  be  betrayed  into  these 
gusts  of  feeling ;  and  both,  were  where  his  most  deep-seated  affec- 
tions lay  garnered.  The  picture  of  the  father  advancing  to  the 
bier  on  which  lay  his  dead  child,  and,  in  the  act  of  placing  the 
customary  funeral  wreath  on  the  head,  the  sight  of  that  innocent 
face  struck  into  marble  whiteness  and  stillness  melting  him  into 
floods  of  grief,  is  painted  for  us  by  Plutarch,  who  after  describing 
some  of  Pericles'  cruellest  mortifications,  and  bitterest  troubles, 
goes  on  to  say : — "  But  all  this  did  never  pull  down  his  coun- 
tenance, nor  any  thing  abate  -^he  greatness  of  his  mind,  what  mis- 
fortune soever  he  had  sustained.  Neither  saw  they  him  weep  at 
any  time,  nor  mourn  at  the  funerals  of  any  of  his  kinsmen  or 


A  S  P  A  S  I  A. 


53 


friends,  but  at  the  deatli  of  Paralus,  his  youngest  son ;  for  the  loss 
of  him  alone  did  melt  his  heart.  Yet  he  did  strive  to  show  hia 
natural  constancy,  and  to  keep  his  accustomed  modesty. 

But  as  he  would  have  put  a  garland  of  flowers  upon  his  head, 
sorrow  did  so  pierce  his  heart  when  he  saw  his  face,  that  then  he 
burst  out  in  tears  and  cried  amain ;  which  they  never  saw  him  do 
before  all  the  days  of  his  life." 

Yet  once  besides,  did  the  grand,  close-held  Periclean  heart  yield 
itself  to  the  keen  throe  of  anguish  at  thought  of  losing  what  it  had 
taken  to  its  very  centre.  When  Aspasia  was  accused  of  heresy, 
and  in  danger  of  banishment  or  condemnation  to  death,  Pericles 
pleaded  her  cause  with  such  passionate  tears  and  such  eloquence  of 
irrepressible  grief,  tha't  she  was  saved. 

The  judges  could  not  resist  the  spectacle  of  this  firm,  manly 
soul  wrung  to  so  open  a  betrayal  of  its  secret  workings,  and  they 
were  moved  to  acquit  her  even  out  of  pity  and  compassion  to  him. 
The  mere  sight  of  the  effect  which  the  dread  of  her  loss  produced 
upon  a  man  like  Pericles,  was,  of  itself,  a  subtle  evidence  of  her 
worth.    To  behold 

"  One,  whose  subdu'd  eyes, 
Albeit  unused  to  the  melting  mood 
Drop  tears  as  fast  as  the  Arabian  trees 
Their  medicinal  gum," 

awakes  profoundest  sympathy ;  and  might  well  bespeak  the  value 
of  the  woman,  for  whose  sake  tears  so  rare  gushed  forth. 

Aspasia,  with  her  expansive  intellect,  and  her  constant  associa- 
tion with  a  man  of  such  intellectual  force  as  Pericles,  was  likely  to 
form  very  decided  individual  opinions ;  and  individuality  of  opin- 
ion constituted  heresy  among  the  Greeks.  Orthodox  behef  meant 
conventional  belief ;  and  persons  of  strong  intellect,  like  Aspasia, 
can  never  be  contented  with  mere  conventionality  in  creed.  She 


64 


A  S  P  A  S  I  A 


was  accused  of  not  believing  in  tlie  gods ;  because  she  entertained 
lier  own  peculiar  and  higlier  views  of  their  attributes  than  vulgar 
believers  could  compass.  But  the  herd  resent  peculiarity  in  faith, 
as  a  tacit  reproof  to  their  own  generalizing  and  easy  subscription 
to  appointed  faith ;  and  they  stigmatize  distinct  belief  as  unbelief: 
— the  herd  dislike  enlarged  faith  as  reflection  upon  their  narrow 
views  and  circumscribed  capacity,  and  call  a  more  exalted  faith, 
want  of  faith.  To  the  capacious  mind  of  Aspasia,  it  is  probable 
that  the  established  forms  of  Greek  worship, — the  offerings  of 
doves  to  Venus,  the  libations  to  Bacchus,  the  sacrifices  to  Jove,  the 
ideas  respecting  Tartarus,  the  inspection  of  entrails  by  augurs,  the 
interpretation  of  signs  and  omens,  and  the  presiding  influence  of 
Ceres,  Juno,  Pallas,  or  Neptune  in  their  respectively  assigned 
tutelages,  seemed  insuflicient,  and  perhaps  impious.  She  may 
have  felt  the  then  received  notions  of  the  Greek  divinities  to  be  a 
falling-short  of  what  she  conceived  regarding  true  divinity.  So- 
crates suffered  death  for  just  such  liberal  faith  in  advance  of  his 
time.  In  vain  had  the  Oracle  of  Delphos  pronounced  him  to  be 
the  wisest  of  mankind ;  when  it  was  discovered  that  he  dared  to 
think  differently  from  others  upon  the  established  forms  of  my- 
thology, his  wisdom  was  adjudged  to  be  inadequate  for  the  pur- 
pose of  guiding  his  conscience,  and  adopting  a  mode  of  belief  for 
himself  He  might  be  "  the  wisest  of  mankind but  he  was  not 
wise  in  their  way ;  and  that  is  ignorance  in  the  eyes  of  the  ignorant. 
So  with  Aspasia ;  her  superior  intellect  procured  her  no  claim  to 
mould  her  creed  according  to  her  individual  perceptions  of  right 
and  wrong ;  although,  possibly,  it  appeared  to  her,  offering  an 
indignity  to  what  she  conceived  of  true  religion,  to  follow  the 
Pagan  worship  in  its  generally-received  usages.  However  this 
may  be,  certain  it  is  that  Aspasia  was  one  of  those  included  in  the 
charge  of  holding  heterodox  opinions  ;  and  when  the  decree  went 


A  S  P  A  S  I  A . 


55 


forth  that  "  Search  and  enquiry  should  be  made  for  heretics  who 
did  not  believe  in  the  gods,  and  who  taught  certain  new  doctrine 
and  opinion  touching  the  operations  of  things  above  in  the  ele- 
ment," Aspasia  was  accused  at  the  same  time  with  Anaxagoras. 
She,  as  we  have  seen,  was  rescued ;  but  the  philosopher  was  com- 
pelled to  leave  Athens.  These  arraignments  of  persons  so  dear  to 
Pericles,  were  the  means  taken  by  those  among  his  envious  perse- 
cutors who  dared  not  assail  him  more  directly,  to  pierce  him 
through  those  he  loved.  'Not  only  did  these  wasps  sting  with 
their  utmost  venom ;  but  they  befouled  the  character  of  her 
whom  they  could  not  vitally  injure.  They  spread  the  blackest 
slanders,  and  insinuated  the  vilest  and  most  scandalous  particulars 
relative  to  the  conduct  of  Aspasia ;  they  charged  her  with  being  a 
party  to  the  basest  acts  of  turpitude, — betraying  persons  of  her 
own  sex  to  the  power  of  the  other,  and  ministering  to  Pericles' 
pleasures  by  the  most  abandoned  and  criminal  inveiglement  of 
other  women.  The  absurdity  of  such  a  charge  against  a  wife, 
seems  to  carry  with  it  its  own  refutal ;  and  the  circumstance  that 
his  foes  fabricated  calumnies  of  a  similarly  odious  nature  respecting 
Phidias,  whom  Pericles  greatly  admired  and  fostered,  shows  how 
completely  these  aspersions  had  him  for  the  object  of  their  covert 
attack. 

Besides  the  more  rank  imputations  thrown  upon  Aspasia,  the 
enemies  of  Pericles  accused  her  of  having  been  instrumental 
in  persuading  him  to  engage  in  two  wars, — both  prejudicial  to  the 
interests  of  the  Athenian  people.  One  of  these  was  the  war 
against  the  Samians,  on  behalf  of  the  Milesians ;  in  order  to  secure 
the  possession  of  Priene  to  Miletus,  the  birth-place  of  Aspasia.  The 
other  was  the  hostility  against  the  Megarians,  by  which  Pericles 
was  said  to  have  involved  the  people  in  a  quarrel,  more  from 
personal  causes,  which  concerned  Aspasia's  wrath  at  the  forcible 


A  S  P  A  S  I  A 


alDduction  of  two  of  lier  attendants  by  some  Megarians,  than  for 
patriotic  need.    But  from  the  first  charge  Aspasia  is  absolved 
by  the  tacit  evidence  of  Tliucydides  ;  wli6  in  Ms  brief  account  of 
the  Samian  war,  gives  no  ground  for  believing  that  her  influence 
was  used  in  the  matter  ;  alleging,  that  it  arose  out  of  an  applica- 
tion on  the  part  of  the  Milesians  to  Athens  to  give  a  more 
democratic  form  to  the  Samian  government.    From  the  second 
charge  she  is  cleared,  by  the  account  in  Plutarch,  which  points  out 
many  far  more  plausible   causes  for  the  difference  with  the 
Megarians,  than  the  one  brought  against  Pericles  and  Aspasia 
jointly,  on  the  ground  of  private  resentment,  by  Aristophanes. 
The  latter,  in  common  with  other  comedy-writers  of  the  period, 
were  peculiarly  severe,  both  upon  Pericles,   and  upon  Aspasia. 
Hermippus,  Eupolis,  and  Cratinus,  as  well  as  Aristophanes,  were 
merciless  in  their  venomous  attacks.    A  satirist  cannot  resist  a 
stinging  liit ;  a  comic  dramatist  cannot  forego  a  telling  point,— it 
is  the  vitality  of  their  caUing.     Gravity  of  deportment,  and 
haughtiness  of  spirit  such  as  characterized  Pericles,  were  much  too 
fruitful  themes  for  caricature,  not  to  provoke  the  fleers  of  humor- 
ous writers ;  while  the  known  former  conduct  of  his  wife,  Aspasia, 
afforded  a  ground  for  coarse  allusion  and  gross  insinuation,  greatly 
too  tempting  to  be  resisted  by  pens  whose  ink  was  dyed  in 
gall,— black,  and  bitter.     It  is  scarcely  to  be  expected  that  wits 
like  these,  who  lived  by  the  laughter  of  the  Athenian  "groundlings," 
should  withstand  the  opportunity  of  making  the  theatre  resound 
with  roars   at  some   broad  jest  against  "the  new  Omphale," 
"  Dejanira,"  or  "  Juno,"  as  they  entitled  Aspasia ;  not  refraining 
from  more  injurious  hints,  besides  still  more  open  and  opprobrious 
appellations.    It  is  to  be  noted,  that  the  only  recorded  unfavour- 
able representations  of  Pericles  and  Aspasia,  are  to  be  found  in 
the  pages  of  comic  writers  of  the  time ;  aU  other  contemporary 


A  S  P  A  S  I  A. 


57 


accounts  of  them,  contain  nothing  tliat  inculpates  either  husband 
or  wife. 

The  world  is  incalculably  obliged,  by  having  such  a  woman  at 
the  side  of  such  a  man.  Pericles  would  not  have  so  finely  acted 
for  the  advantage  of  mankind,  had  he  not  been  prompted, 
stimulated,  and  aided  by  Aspasia.  Such  a  qualitied  helpmate 
developes  a  man's  faculties,  and  perfects  his  genius.  She  is  perhaps 
even  more  valuable  thus,  acting  tlirougli  him,  than  had  she  been  * 
more  palpably  great  in  herself.  Her  intellect  operating  in 
enhancement  of  his,  produces  probably  a  larger  amount  of  gained 
benefit  to  the  world,  than  had  each  stood  alone, — he,  Pericles, 
such  as  he  was  before  he  knew  her,  and  would  have  been  without 
ever  having  had  her  at  all ; — and  she,  a  woman  self-distinguished, 
and  self-renowned.  A  woman's  intellect,  however  high,  as  mani- 
fested by  its  agency  upon  that  of  a  superior  man,  must  always  be 
more  advantageous  in  result  to  humanity,  than  when  exercised 
solely  of  its  own  individual  power.  It  doubles  itself,  it  augments 
his ;  and  a  multiplied  emanation  of  intellectual  enlightenment 
accrues  to  their  fellow-creatures  in  consequence. 

Plato  bears  witness  to  the  fact  of  its  being  Aspasia  to  whom 
Pericles  was  indebted  for  his  mastery  as  an  orator.  It  is  in  the 
"  Menexenus  "  of  Plato  that  we  find  this  testimony ;  and  it  is  put 
into  the  mouth  of  Socrates,  who  is  one  of  the  speakers  in  the 
dialogue,  saying : — "  My  mistress  in  the  art  of  oratory  was  perfect 
in  the  science  which  she  taught,  and  had  formed  many  other 
excellent  orators,  and  one  of  the  most  eminent  among  the  Greeks, — 
Pericles,  the  son  of  Xantippus."  In  an  age  when  oratory  was  one 
of  the  most  active  means  of  guiding  public  opinion,  of  teaching  the 
commonalty,  and  swaying  men's  minds,  it  was  to  place  the 
mightiest  sceptre  within  a  ruler's  grasp,  to  gift  him  with  pre- 
eminent powers  of  oration.    The  natural  faculty  of  Pericles,  was 


gg  A  S  P  A  S  I  A. 


cultivated  into  tlie  liigliest  perfection;  and  tlie  speecli  wliicli  lie 
delivered  at  the  close  of  the  first  campaign  of  the  Peloponnesian 
war  stands  renowned  as  the  most  consummate  in  excellence  of 
all  the  compositions  of  the  kind  of  antiquity.    It  was  an  oration 
upon  those  who  had  fallen  in  the  war,  as  he  had  delivered  a 
discourse  previously  at  the  close  of  the  Samian  war,  and  as  it  was 
then  the  custom  so  to  address  the  populace  on  public  occasions  of 
■the  kind.    From  this   great   speech   may  be   gathered  what 
Pericles  considered  to  be  the  character  of  a  good  citizen,— thus 
instructing  his  hearers  in  their  duties  ;  and  how  he  placed  in  strong 
contrast  the  Spartan,  with  the  Athenian  method  of  bringing  up 
members  of  the  state,— thus  inducing  emulation,  and  exciting 
noble  consciousness.    It  is  said  to  be  impossible  to  do  justice 
to  this  magnificent  oration  of  Pericles,  by  any  attempt  to  render 
it  into  a  modern  language ;  but  that  it  more  completely  reveals 
the  intellectual  power  and  moral  character  of  the  man,  than  all 
that  the  historians  and  biographers  have  said,  of  him.    It  is 
asserted  that  the  form  in  which  the  great  orator  and  statesman  has 
here  embodied  his  lofty  conceptions,  is  beauty  chastened  and 
elevated  by  a  noble  severity.    Athens  and  Athenians  are  the 
objects  which  his  aml)ition  seeks  to  immortalize,  and  the  whole 
world  is  the  theatre  of  their  glorious  exploits. 

In  this  matchless  speech  of  Pericles,  Aspasia's  oratorical 
powers  shine  with  reflected  glory  ; — she  having  been  (as  already 
observed)  the  instructress  who  instilled  the  forms  of  eloquence 
and  the  woman  who  helped  to  inspire  and  develope  the  thoughts 
which  combine  to  render  it  so  transcendently  great.  But  it  is 
recorded  that  her  own  speeches  were  remarkable  specimens  of 
oratory.  Plato,  in  his  "  Menexenus,"  introduces  a  funeral  oration 
as  Aspasia's  ;  and  it  is  therefore  just  to  conclude  that  she  excelled 
in  pronouncing  such  discourses.     Socrates  eulogizes  Aspasia's 


A  S  P  A  S  I  A. 


59 


funeral  oration,  while  declaring  her  to  have  been  his  own 
instructress  in  the  art  of  rhetoric. 

Aspasia  Avas  so  famed  in  fascination,  that  Cyi'us  gave  her 
name  to  his  favourite,  the  daughter  of  Hermotimus  of  Phocaea ; 
who  had  before  been  called  Milto, — vermilion, — on  account  of  the 
beauty  of  her  complexion.  The  name  of  Aspasia  passed  almost 
into  a  synonyme  for  accompHshed  attraction,  and  charm  of  en- 
dowment. It  was  not  so  much  for  personal  beauty,  as  for  grace  of 
expression,  for  conversational  powers,  for  skill  in  all  intellectual 
attainments,  that  Aspasia  was  especially  noted.  In  her,  in- 
tellect outshone  all  else;  it  seemed  to  spread  around  her  so 
dazzling  a  light,  that  her  moral  qualities  were  obscured  by  its 
glare.  Her  affections  seemed  merged  in  her  mental  faculties ;  and 
as  if  she  could  only  feel  preference,  where  they  found  scope  for 
their  exercise. 

After  the  death  of  Pericles,  it  is  said, — on  the  authority  of 
^schines,— that  she  formed  an  attachment  for  Lysicles,  a  man  of 
mean  extraction,  of  low  calling,  and  of  clownish  nature ;  and  who, 
from  being  but  a  grazier,  grew  to  be  the  chief  man  in  Athens, 
owing  to  his  frequenting  the  company  of  Aspasia.  That  she 
chose  so  unpromising  an  object  for  her  precej^ts,  seems  only  to  be 
accounted  for,  by  believing  it  to  have  been  a  caprice  of  conscious 
intellect,  resolved  to  test  to  the  utmost  its  power ; — and  which 
must  have  approached  the  miraculous,  if  it  succeeded  in  convert- 
ing a  boor  into  a  ruler. 

The  combination  of  moral  and  mental  excellence  in  a  woman, 
— and  the  fact  of  her  womanhood,  generally  operates  to  make  the 
moral  preponderate,— is  the  prefection  of  womanly  character; 
but  it  is  to  be  believed,  that  Aspasia  can  be  cited  among  the 
World's-noted  Women,  only  as  strictly  and  exclusively  the  woman 
of  Intellect. 


Ni'W  Yol'k  ll.Ap|ildoii  &  1"'  MG  :■•  a.'l.ll  llni.,J>,v,  y  . 


# 


A 


CLEOPATRA. 


Cleopatea  was  the  grandest  coquette  tliat  ever  lived.  Csesars 
were  lier  fit  slaves,  for  slie  Lad  imperial  powers  of  captivation. 
She  was  a  gorgeous  personification  of  feminine  fascination, — of  Le- 
witcliing  womanhood  in  regal  magnificence.  She  used  her  female 
graces  as  enhancements  to  her  queenly  state ;  and  made  her  power 
of  pleasing,  a  crown  to  her  royal  power.  She  was  born  a  j)rincess, 
reigned  a  queen,  won  an  emperor,  swayed  a  hero,  and  defeated  a 
conqueror  ;  while  her  personal  blandishments  live,  in  the  imagina- 
tion of  posterity,  as  far  outweighing  the  facts  of  her  fortune.  We 
think  of  her  as  the  queen  of  enslavers,  more  than  as  queen  of 
Egypt.    She  stands  conspicuous  to  fancy  in  might  of  allurement. 

The  story  of  her  life  tells  the  tale  of  her  supremacy  in  the  arc 
of  subduing.  She  was  born  about  the  year  69  B.  C,  and  was  the 
daughter  of  Ptolemy  Auletes,  king  of  Egypt,  by  whose  will  she 
and  her  elder  brother  were  appointed  joint  successors  to  the 
crown.  This  partnership  in  reigning  led  to  endless  dissensions, 
which  at  length  resulted  in  such  fraternal  tyranny  that  Cleopatra 
held  herself  aloof  until  she  could  effectually  make  good  her  claim 
to  an  equal  share  of  regal  power,  and  establish  herself  firmly  on 
the  throne.    Hearing  that  Julius  Gsesar  had  come  to  Alexandria, 


62 


OLEOPATEA. 


and, — since  Pompey  was  slain, — intended  settling  tlie  dispute 
between  her  brotlier  and  lierself,  slie  resolved  to  gain  over  tlie 
arbitrator  to  lier  interest  beforeliand,  and  so  secure  a  favourable 
decision.  Confident  in  lier  seductive  powers,  if  once  slie  could 
procure  access  to  Mm,  she  contrived  to  compass  this  by  a  plan 
bold  as  it  was  successful.  The  incident  is  quaintly  related  in 
ISTortli's  Plutarch ;  where  the  antiquated  diction  wonderfully  well 
suits  with  the  old-world  narrative.  These  are  Sir  Thomas  North's 
words "  She,  only  taking  Apollodorus  of  all  her  friends,  took  a 
little  boat,  and  went  away  with  him  in  it  in  the  night,  and  came 
and  landed  hard  by  the  foot  of  the  castle.  Then,  having  no  other 
mean  to  come  into  the  court  without  being  known,  she  laid  her- 
self down  upon  a  mattress,  or  flock-bed,  which  Apollodorus,  her 
friend,  tied  and  bound  up  together  like  a  bundle  with  a  great 
leather  thong ;  and  so  took  her  upon  his  back,  and  brought  her 
thus  hampered  in  this  fardel  unto  Ctesar  in  at  the  castle  gate. 
This  was  the  first  occasion  (as  it  is  reported)  that  made  Csesar  to 
love  her ;  but  afterwards,  when  he  saw  her  sweet  conversation  and 
pleasant  entertainment,  he  fell  then  in  farther  liking  with  her,  and 
did  reconcile  her  again  unto  her  brother  the  king,  with  condition 
that  they  two  should  jointly  reign  together." 

This  decision  of  Cassar's  ill  pleased  the  prince ;  who  rebelled 
against  it,  and  attempted — first  by  treason,  and  then  by  declared 
warfare, — to  lid  himself  of  his  sister's  powerful  supporter ;  but 
Julius  defeated  the  plot,  vanquished  the  army,  routed  the  king, 
(who,  some  accounts  say,  was  drowned  in  the  Nile,)  and  constitu- 
ted Cleopatra  queen  of  Egypt.  She  bore  a  son  to  Ca>sar,  named 
Csesarion ;  and  when  the  father  retm^ned  to  Kome,  Cleopatra  fol- 
lowed him  thither.  Julius  here  received  her ;  treating  her  with 
such  marks  of  fond  adulation — among  others,  placing  her  statue 
in  gold  by  the  side  of  that  of  Venus — ^that  it  gave  umbrage  to 


CLEOPATRA. 


63 


tlie  Romans.  This  life  slie  continued  to  lead  ;  and  remained  with 
Julius  Csesar  until  his  death  by  assassination. 

Upon  this  latter  event,  Cleopatra  hastily  quitted  Italy,  and  re- 
turned to  Egypt ;  which  precipitate  retreat,  afterwards  drew  upon 
her  the  suspicion  of  having  aided  the  chief  conspirators,  Brutus 
and  Cassius,  in  their  war  against  Octavius  and  Antony.  It  was 
with  the  avowed  intention  of  examining  into  her  conduct  upon 
this  occasion,  that  Marc  Antony,  while  going  to  do  battle  with  the 
Parthians,  sent  messengers  to  summon  Cleopatra  to  appear  before 
him  and  answer  the  accusations  brought  as^ainst  her.       :  ,  , 

She,— who  as  an  unripe  girl,  in  her  "sallet  days,  when  green  in 
judgment,"  had  won  "  the  mightiest  Julius  "  to  her  will, — was  no- 
wise doubtful,  now,  in  the  very  flower  of  Avomanhood,  of  gaining 
her  way  with  Antony,  She  addressed  herself  to  her  purpose  wdth 
equal  dexterity  and  subtlety  ;  but  adopted  wholly  different  means. 
Whereas  before,  she  had  had  herself  conveyed  surreptitiously  into 
Csesar's  presence  and  laid  at  his  very  foot,  as  the  surest  way  to  his 
arms ;  she  this  time  shone  forth  in  broad  noon-day  splendour,  and 
plenitude  of  conscious  attractions,  sweeping  openly  and  triumph- 
antly to  take  possession  of  Marc  Antony's  heart  and  senses  at 
once  and  for  ever,  as  her  own  rightful  conquest,  This  scene  also, 
shall  be  given  from  Plutarch,  that  the  reader  may  perceive  how 
closely  both  Shakespeare  and  Dryden  have  rendered  the  picture 
in  their  verse ;  and  also  because  the  passage  presents  most  charac- 
teristic touches  of  Cleopatra's  self: 

"  She  furnished  herself  with  a  world  of  gifts,  store  of  gold  and 
silver,  and  of  riches,  and  other  sumptuous  ornaments,  as  is  credible 
enough  she  might  bring  from  so  great  a  house,  and  from  so  wealthy 
and  rich  a  realm  as  Egypt  was.  But  yet  she  carried  nothing  with 
her  wherein  she  trusted  more  than  in  herself,  and  in  the  charms 
and  enchantment  of  her  passing  beauty  and  grace.  Therefore, 


64 


CLEOPATRA. 


wlien  slie  was  sent  unto  by  divers  letters,  botli  from  Antonius 
himself,  and  also  from  Ms  friends,  slie  made  so  light  of  it,  and 
mocked  Antonius  so  much,  that  she  disdained  to  set  forward 
otherwise,  but  to  take  her  l^arge  in  the  river  of  Cydnus ;  the  poop 
whereof  was  of  gold,  the  sails  of  purple,  and  the  oars  of  silver, 
which  kept  stroke  in  rowing  after  the  sound  of  the  music  of  flutes, 
hautboys,  citherns,  viols,  and  such  other  instruments  as  they  played 
upon  in  the  barge.  And  now  for  the  person  of  herself:  she  was 
laid  under  a  pavilion  of  cloth  of  gold  tissue,  attired  like  the  goddess 
Venus,  commonly  drawn  in  picture ;  and  hard  by  her,  on  either 
hand  of  her,  pretty,  fair  boys,  appareled  as  painters  do  set  forth 
god  Cupid,  with  little  fans  in  their  hands,  with  the  which  they 
fanned  wind  ujDon  her.  Her  ladies  and  gentlewomen,  the  fairest  of 
them,  were  appareled  like  the  nymphs,  nereids  (which  are  the 
mermaids  of  the  waters),  and  graces ;  some  steering  the  helm, 
others  tending  the  tackle  and  ropes  of  the  barge,  out  of  the  which 
there  came  a  wonderful  passing  sweet  savour  of  perfumes,  that 
perfumed  the  wharf's  side,  pestered  with  innumerable  multitudes 
of  people.  Some  of  them  followed  the  barge  all  along  the  river 
side ;  others  also  ran  out  of  the  city  to  see  her  coming  in :  so  that, 
in  the  end,  there  ran  such  multitudes  of  people  one  after  another 
to  see  her,  that  Antonius  was  left  almost  alone  in  the  market-place, 
in  his  imperial  seat  to  give  audience."  There  was  the  first  step  in 
advantage  gained  by  Cleopatra  over  Antony.  The  summoning 
judge,  the  intended  enquirer  into  her  behaviour,  reduced  to 
solitary  state, — left  there  well-nigh  by  himself,  to  abide  her 
coming.  The  account  goes  on  to  say : — "  When  Cleopatra  landed, 
Antonius  sent  to  invite  her  to  supper  with  him.  But  she  sent  him 
Avord  again,  he  should  do  better  to  come  and  sup  with  her. 
Antonius,  therefore,  to  show  himself  courteous  unto  her  at  her 
arrival,  was  contented  to  obey  her,  and  went  to  supper  with  her ; 


CLEOPATRA. 


G5 


where  lie  found  sucli  passing  sumptuous  fare,  that  no  tongue  can 
express  it."  Step  the  second;  his  invitation  set  aside,  hers 
accepted,  and  the  delinquent,  instead  of  being  the  entertained  of 
the  judge,  becoming  his  entertainer.  "  The  next  night,  Antonius 
feasting  her,  contended  to  pass  her  in  magnificence  and  fineness ; 
but  she  overcame  him  in  both.  So  that  he  himself  began  to  scorn 
the  gross  service  of  his  house,  in  res|)ect  of  Cleopatra's  sumptuous- 
ness  and  fineness.  And  when  Cleopatra  found  Antonius'  feasts 
to  be  but  gross  and  soldier-like,  in  plain  manner,  she  gave  it  him 
finely,  and  without  fear  taunted  him  thoroughly."  Here  was  she 
already  installed  as  rater  of  his  conduct,  instead  of  rendering  him 
an  account  of  hers ;  and  established  upon  easy  terms  of  playful 
intimacy,  rallying,  jesting,  giving  rival  rej)asts,' — in  short,  drawing 
him  completely  within  the  spell  of  her  witchery. 

All  the  historical  traditions  of  Cleopatra  agree  m  stating 
that  she  was  not  surpassingly  handsome ;  not  remarkable  for 
beauty, — linear  beauty ;  and  this  is  borne  out  by  the  medals  extant 
of  her.  But  every  recorded  circumstance  tends  to  confirm  the  fact, 
that  she  possessed  a  matchless  and  inexpressible  charm  of  face  and 
person ;  with  incomparable  grace  in  manner  and  discourse.  We 
are  told  that  she  was  not  so  strikingly  beautiful  as  at  first  view  to 
enamour  men ;  but  so  sweet  was  her  company  and  conversation, 
that  a  man  could  not  possibly  but  be  taken."  Her  demeanour  is 
described  as  irresistibly  engaging ;  courteous,  sweet,  sportive,  and 
varied.  "Furthermore,"  says  Plutarch,  "her  voice  and  words 
were  marvellous  pleasant;  for  her  tongue  was  an  instrument  of 
music,  the  w^hich  she  easily  tuned  into  any  language  that  pleased 
her."  She  is  said  to  have  spoken  with  few  people  by  interpreter  ; 
having  a  knowledge  of  several  dialects,  besides  being  perfect 
mistress  of  her  own^ — which  latter  was  not  uniformly  the  case 
with  her  royal  Egyptian  progenitors.    This  command  of  language 


(36  CLEOPATRA. 

was  one  main  instrument,  in  tlie  power  site  exercised  over  men's 
minds.  Her  oriental  taste  for  magnificence,  too,  combined  with 
tlie  refinement  and  cultivation  slie  acquired  in  her  relations  witli 
Greece,  concurred  to  render  lier  all-potent  in  seductive  accom- 
plishment. It  was  upon  occasion  of  one  of  the  rival  repasts  above 
alluded  to  between  herself  and  Antony,  on  the  banks  of  the 
Cydnus,  that  Cleopatra  committed  the  well-known  piece  of  lavish  ^ 
wilfulness, — dissolving  the  pearl  in  the  goblet  at  a  banquet. 
Pliny  recounts  the  anecdote;  and  says  that  Cleopatra,  being 
desirous  of  proving  to  her  lover  that  she  could  surpass  him  in 
magnificence,  layed  a  wager  with  him  that  she  would  expend  as  . 
much  as  ten  millions  of  sesterces  at  a  single  feast.  Antony  thought 
the  thing  unpossible,  and  defied  her  to  do  it.  She  unfastened  from 
her  ears  two  pearls  of  enormous  size,  caused  a  cuj)  filled  with  vine- 
gar to  be  brought,  dissolved  therein  one  of  these  pearls,  and 
swallowed  the  draught.  She  was  about  to  sacrifice  the  other 
pearl;  when  Plaucus, — the  umpire  of  the  wager, — took  possession 
of  it,  declaring  that  Antony  had  lost.  This  second  pearl  was  pre- 
served with  care,  and  brought  to  Eome  after  the  death  of 
Cleopatra;  it  was  then  divided  in  two,  and  placed  in  the  ears  of  the 
statiue  of  Venus,  at  the  Pantheon.  The  latter  circumstance  proves 
both  the  size  and  worth  of  the  gem ;  which  probably  Dry  den  had 
in  his  mind  when, — alluding  to  Cleopatra's'  jewels, — he  wrote  the 
line : — 

"  EacH  pendant  in  her  ear  stall  be  a  province." 

Antony,  wholly  given  up  to  his  passion  for  Cleoj)atra, 
forsook  his  warlike  enterprise  with  the  Parthians,  neglected  his 
affairs  with  Csesar  at  home,  left  his  wife  Fulvia  to  promote  as  she 
best  might  their  interests  abroad,  and  accompanied  the  Queen  of 
Egypt  to  Alexandria.  Again  the  story  is  best  told  in  Plutarch's 
words  ;  which  not  only  depict  vividly  the  facts,  but  supply  curious 


CLEOPATEA. 


67 


anecdotical  particulai'S,  known  to  liim  Iby  direct  family  narration. 
It  imparts  a  singularly  real  and  emphatic  effect,  to  liave  the  liis- 
torian  quoting  his  own  relation's  description  of  the  occurrence  ;  and 
the  familiar  style  in  which  the  thing  is  told  heightens  the  pleasant 
air  of  eye-witness  truth  we  are  made  to  feel  in  viewing  Antony 
and  Cleopatra's  mode  of  life  together  at  this  period.  He  says : — 
"  Antonius  yielded  himself  to  go  with  Cleopatra  unto  Alexandria, 
where  he  spent  and  lost  in  childish  sports  and  idle  pastimes,  the 
most  precious  thing  a  man  can  spend  (as  Antiphon  says),  and  that 
is.  Time.  For  they  made  an  order  between  them,  which  they 
called  Amimetobion  (as  much  as  to  say,  no  life  comparable  and 
matchable  with  it),  one  feasting  each  other  by  turns,  and  in  cost 
exceeding  all  measure  and  reason.  And  for  proof  hereof,  I  have 
heard  my  grandfather,  Lampryas,  report,  that  one  Philotas,  a 
physician,  born  in  the  city  of  Amphissa,  told  him,  that  he  was  at 
that  present  time  in  Alexandria,  and  studied  physic ;  and  that 
having  acquaintance  with  one  of  Antonius'  cooks,  he  took  him 
with  him  to  Antonius'  house  (being  a  young  man  desirous  to  see 
things),  to  show  him  the  wonderful  sumptuous  charge  and  pre- 
paration of  one  only  supper.  When  he  was  in  the  kitchen,  and 
saw  a  World  of  diversities  of  meats,  and  amongst  others,  eight 
wild  boars  roasted  whole,  he  began  to  wonder  at  it,  and  said : — 
'  Sure  you  have  a  great  number  of  guests  to  supper.'  The  cook 
fell  a-laughing,  and  answered  him : — '  No,'  (quoth  he)  '  not  many 
guests,  nor  above  twelve  in  all ;  but  yet  all  that  is  boiled  or  roast- 
ed must  be  served  in  whole,  or  else  it  would  be  marred  straight ; 
for  Antonius  peradventure  will  sup  presently,  or  it  may  be  a 
pretty  while  hence,  or  likely  enough  he  will  defer  it  longer,  for  that 
he  hath  drunk  well  to-day,  or  else  hath  had  some  great  matters  in 
hand;  and  therefore  we  do  not  dress  one  supper  only,  but  many 
suppers,  because  we  are  uncertain  of  the  hour  he  will  sup  in.'' 


G8 


CLEOPATRA. 


Cleopatra  gave  Marc  Antony's  voluptuous  inclinations  their 
fall  bent.    She  was  naturally  constituted  to  share  them ;  and  her 
will  seconding  her  temperament,  she  ministered  to  them  in  their 
utmost  extent.    Dedicating  herself  to  the  task  of  coiling  him  se- 
curely within  the  folds  she  had  flung  around  him,  the  "  Serpent  of 
Old  Nile"  ceased  not  to  fascinate  his  senses  and  drowse  his  thoughts 
by  every  device  within  her  power,  now  that  she  had  him  to  her- 
self in  Alexandria.    Whether  in  matters  of  sport,  or  in  affairs  of 
earnest,  she  still  maintained  her  influence  over  his  ideas;  ever 
planning  fresh  delights  to  have  him  at  her  command,  never  leaving 
him  night  nor  day,  and  scarce '  letting  him  go  out  of  her  sight. 
She  watched  to  prevent  reflection  from  gaining  hold  of  him  ;  and 
the  better  to  ensure  this,  she  promoted  his  pleasures  and  partook 
in  all  his  pursuits  with  the  freedom  of  a  man,  and  the  vivacity  of  a 
woman.    She  made  herself  at  once  male  associate  and  female  com- 
panion to  him,— both  comrade  and  mistress,  she  became  his  fellow- 
reveller.    She  would  play  at  dice  with  him,  drink  with  him,  hunt 
with  him,  and  accompany  him  in  whatever  exercise  or  bodily  ac- 
tivity he  practised.    Sometimes,  when  he  chose  to  go  about  the 
city  at  night,  disguised  like  a  slave,  peering  into  people's  windows 
and  shops,  brawling  with  them  in  their  houses,  taking  and  gi^dng 
both  abuse  and  blows,  Cleopatra  would  be  with  him  in  cham- 
bermaid's array,  rambling  along  the  streets  at  his  side.  Among 
the  mirthful  idlenesses  she  devised  for  him,  was  the  one  of  the  ang- 
ling alluded  to  in  Shakespeare  with  such  admirable  dramatic  art, 
in  making  it  conduce  to  develope  appropriate  touches  of  character 
in  the  Egyptian  queen-coquette,  while  told  with  curious  fidelity  to 
the  original  account  in  Plutarch.    "  On  a  time,  he  went  to  angle 
for  fish ;  and  when  he  could  take  none,  he  was  as  angry  as  could  be, 
because  Cleopatra  stood  by.    Wherefore  he  secretly  commanded 
the  fishermen,  that  when  he  cast  in  his  line,  they  should  straio-ht 


CLEOPATRA 


69 


dive  under  the  water,  and  put  a  fisli  on  his  hook  which  they  had 
taken  "before  ;  and  so  snatched  up  his  angling-rod,  and  brought  up 
a  fish  twice  or  thrice.  Cleopatra  found  it  straight,  yet  she  seemed 
not  to  see  it,  but  wondered  at  his  excellent  fishing ;  but  when  she 
was  alone  by  herself  among  her  own  people,  she  told  them  how 
it  was,  and  bade  them  the  next  morning  to  be  on  the  water  to  see 
the  fishing.  Antonius  threw  in  his  line,  and  Cleopatra  straight  com- 
manded one  of  her  men  to  dive  under  water  before  Antonius' 
men,  and  to  put  some  old  salt-fish  upon  his  bait.  When  he  had 
hung  the  fish  on  his  hook,  Antonius,  thinking  he  had  taken  a  fish 
indeed,  snatched  up  his  line  presently.  Then  they  all  fell  a-laugh- 
ing.  Cleopatra  laughing  also,  said  unto  him; — 'Leave  us  Egyp- 
tians your  angling-rod,  my  lord.  This  is  not  thy  profession  ;  thou 
must  hunt  after  conquering  of  realms  and  countries.' "  The  very 
woman  herself  is  in  that  little  speech !  Winning  him  to  her  by 
playfully  bidding  him  go  from  her  ;  and  smiling  a  scoff  at  conquest 
of  kingdoms  as  inferior  to  skill  in  fishing.  The  touch,  too,  of  find- 
ing out  the  trick  at  once,  yet  feigning  not  to  see  it,  and  praising  his 
angling,  is  precisely  the  wily  Cleopatra. 

But  at  length  ill  news  from  Eome  stirred  Antony  from  his 
trance,  and  he  tore  himself  from  the  enchantress's  "  strong  toil  of 
grace,"  to  return  to  Italy.  He  is  described  as  "  rousing  himself 
with  much  ado,  as  if  he  had  been  wakened  out  of  a  deep  sleep,  and 
as  coming  out  of  a  great  drunkenness." 

For  some  time,  Marc  Antony  withstood  the  temptation  to  trust 
himself  again  within  the  circle  of  the  "  great  fairy's  "  magic  attrac- 
tions; but  after  Fulvia's  death,  having  adjusted  the  differences 
that  existed  between  Octavius  Caesar  and  himself,  by  an  alliance 
with  the  sister,  Octavia,  he  went  to  Asia.  Arriving  in  Syria,  it 
seemed  as  if,  once  more  near  to  the  spell  of  her  sorceries,  he  could 
no  longer  resist  its  influence ;  for  he  sent  messengers  to  bring  Cleo- 


TO 


CLEOPATRA. 


patra  with  them  to  meet  him.  To  welcome  her,  he  heaped  gifts 
of  royal  dominion  ;  adding  to  the  territories  she  already  possessed, 
the  provinces  of  PhcBnicia,  and  of  lower  Syria,  the  Isle  of  Cyprus, 
a  great  portion  of  Cilicia,  and  part  of  Arabia.  These  gifts  much 
displeased  the  Komans ;  but  even  his  profuse  donations  to  her,  did 
not  so  greatly  offend  them,  as  the  immeasurable  honours  he  paid 
her.  Cleopatra  having  brought  him  twins,  a  son  and  a  daughter. 
Marc  Antony  surnamed  them  the  Sun,  and  the  Moon.  At  a  subse- 
quent period,  he  caused  a  silver  tribunal  to  be  erected  in  the  public 
square,  with  two  chairs  of  gold  for  their  own  children,  and  for 
Csesarion,  her  son  by  Julius  Caesar;  while  he  proclaimed  their 
several  appointed  monarchies.  Cleo23atra  not  only  wore  upon  that 
occasion,  but  on  all  occasions  when  she  appeared  in  public,  the 
attires  of  the  goddess  Isis,  and  gave  audience  to  her  subjects  as  Isis 
in  person,  "When  Cleopatra  was  in  Athens,  being  jealous  of  the 
honours  which  Octavia  had  received  in  that  city,  she  sought  to 
ingratiate  herself  with  the  Athenians,  by  showering  gifts  upon 
them.  They,  in  return,  awarded  her  high  distinctions  ;  and  ap- 
pointing certain  embassadors  to  carry  the  decree  to  her,  Antonius, 
as  a  citizen  of  Athens,  headed  the  deputation,  and  made  an  oration 
to  her  on  behalf  of  the  city.  Antony  was  ever  foremost  in  offering 
her  extravagance  of  homage.  The  open  court  he  paid  her, — pro- 
digal as  it  was, — formed  only  the  sincere  expression  of  the  feelings 
he  cherished  for  her.  She  was  the  idol  of  his  existence  :  with  her, 
he  was  wrapt  in  joyful  fruition ;  away  from  her,  he  flagged  un- 
satisfied, restless,  and  but  half  himself  In  Armenia,  he  is  described 
awaiting  at  a  place  on  the  coast  Cleopatra's  arrival ; — "  And  be- 
cause she  tarried  longer  than  he  would  have  had  her,  he  pined 
away  for  love  and  sorrow ;  so  that  he  was  at  such  a  strait  that 
he  wist  not  what  to  do,  and  therefore  to'  wear  it  out,  he  gave  him- 
self to  quaffing  and  feasting.    But  he  was  so  drowned  with  the 


CLEOPATRA.  71 

love  of  her,  that  lie  could  not  abide  to  sit  at  the  table  till  the  feast 
was  ended  ;  but  many  times,  while  others  banqueted,  he  ran  to  the 
sea-side  to  see  if  she  were  coming."  There  is  an  equally  charac- 
teristic detail  of  Cleopatra's  behaviour,  when  (^-eading  that  Octa- 
via's  merits  would  prevail  at  length  to  draw  Antony  from  her 
society : — "  She  subtly  seemed  to  languish  for  the  love  of  Antonius, 
pining  her  body  for  lack  of  meat.  Furthermore,  she  every  way  so 
framed  her  countenance,  that  when  Antonius  came  to  see  her,  she 
cast  her  eyes  upon  him,  like  a  woman  ravished  for  joy.  Straight 
again  when  he  went  from  her,  she  fell  a-weeping,  looking  ruefully 
on  the  matter,  and  still  found  means  that  Antonius  should  often- 
times find  her  weeping ;  and  then  when  he  came  suddenly  upon 
her,  she  made  as  though  she  dried  her  eyes,  and  turned  her  face 
away,  as  if  she  were  unwilling  that  he  should  see  her  weep."  Con- 
summate coquetry ! 

Among  the  munificent  presents  bestowed  by  Antony  upon 
Cleopatra,  was  the  famous  library  enriched  by  Eumenes,  at  Per- 
gamus,  consisting  of  above  two  hundred  thousand  books.  Marc 
Antony  caused  it  to  be  conveyed  to  Alexandria,  giving  thereby 
one  of  the  many  causes  of  offence  to  the  Romans,  which  they  so 
highly  resented ;  reproaching  him  with  lavishing  upon  his  paramour 
those  treasures  of  conquest  which  rightfully  should  have  been 
brought  home  to  his  native  city. 

At  length,  Octavius  Csesar,  indignant  at  the  treatment  of  his 
sister  Octavia  by  her  husband,  fomented  the  people's  hatred 
towards  Marc  Antony ;  while  Antony,  on  his*  side,  complained  of 
injustice,  and  mutual  recrimination  resulted  in  declared  war  be- 
tween them.  Cleopatra  gave  her  royal  aid,  by  furnishing  troops, 
money,  and  provisions,  to  assist  Antony  in  levying  his  army ;  but 
she  lent  feminine  hindrance,  by  making  a  point  that  she  should 
accompany  him  to  the  battle,  and  by  counselling  that  it  should 


72  CLEOPATRA. 

take  place  by  sea.    Antony's  land  force  exceeded  in  strength  his 
sea  power ;  for  Ms  galleys  were  ill-manned,  their  equipage  being 
insufficient  in  number,  as  well  as  raw  in  discipline ;  however,  so 
enthralled  was  he  by  "great  Egypt's"  will,  that,  he  not  only 
yielded  himself  blindly  to  its  dictates  in  thus  conducting  the  action, 
but  when  it  was  lost,  he  flung  himself  headlong  on  her  traces, 
flying  when  she  fled,  his  vessel  following  hers,  as  if  literally  "  his 
heart  to  her  rudder  was  tied  by  the  strings,  and  towed  after." 
The  whole  account  of  the  expedition  strikingly  pourtrays  the 
wonted  conduct  of  each.    Previously  to  setting  forth,  their  time 
was  spent  in  revelry  and  banqueting ;  insomuch  that  the  people 
exclaimed  : — "  What  can  they  do  more  for  joy  of  victory,  if  they 
win  the  battle,  when  they  already  make  such  sumptuous  feasts  at 
the  beginning  of  the  war  ? "    WhUe  Antony's  ship  rode  at  anchor 
ni  the  harbour,  near  Actium,  awaiting  the  enemy's  approach, 
Octavius  Caesar,  advancing,  took  Toryne,  a  small  town  not  far 
distant.    Antony's  officers  were  startled,  knowing  their  leader's 
land  force  was  left  behind ;  but  Cleopatra  turned  it  into  occasion 
for  a  joke,  as  the  best  means  of  inducing  Antony  to  take  it  lightly. 
She  made  a  pun  upon  the  word  "  Toryne,"  (which,  in  the  language 
of  the  country,  signified  a  ladle,  as  well  as  the  name  of  the  place), 
asking,  "  What  danger  there  could  be,  from  Toryne  falling  into 
Caesar's  hands  ?  "    And  after  the  battle,  when  his  galley  followed 
her  retreating  ship,  she  lifted  signals,  and  waited  for  him  ;  but  he 
remained  plunged  in  shame  and  grief,  sitting  alone  in  the  prow  of 
the  vessel,  his  face  buried  in  his  hands.    Three  days  he  remained 
thus  brooding  and  silent,  speaking  no  word  to  any  one,  lost  in  pro- 
foundest  dejection.    But  she  who  had  originated  his  cause  of 
despair,  found  means  to  win  him  from  its  depths;  and  once  more 
cheered  him  into  hope  and  spirit.    He  rallied  his  forces,  and  went 
again  to  meet  Octavius  Csesar ;  but  sustained  reverse  upon  reverse. 


CLEOPATRA. 


73 


On  returning  to  Alexandria,  Marc  Antony  found  Cleopatra  busied 
with  a  gigantic  project,  by  whicli  she  hoped  to  secure  a  means  of 
escape  from  the  perils  of  the  pending  war.  This  project  was  no 
other  than  an  attempt  to  have  her  ships  transported  across  the 
isthmus  of  Suez,  so  that  she  might  get  her  treasure  and  people 
conveyed  away  from  the  Mediterranean  sea  to  the  Southern  ocean, 
whence  she  might  sail  for  India.  She  succeeded  in  sending  some 
of  her  vessels  ;  but  they  were  seized  and  burned  by  the  Arabs. 

For  a  time,  Marc  Antony  indulged  %  gloomy  misanthropic 
mood  ;  dwelling  apart  and  alone,  in  a  house  he  built  himself  down 
by  the  sea,  in  the  island  of  Pharos.  But  Cleopatra  ceased  not  till 
she  lured  him  from  his  melancholy.  She  made  him  give  up  his 
solitude,  and  come  to  her  royal  palace;  where  they  once  more 
launched  into  the  full  tide  of  riotous  gayety.  They  now  substituted 
for  their  previous  order  of  existence,  "  Amimetobion,"  ("  no  life 
comparable,")  another  one,  which  they  entitled  Synapothanume- 
non  (signifying  the  order  and  agreement  of  those  who  Avill  die 
together).  This  new  order  was  nowise  inferior  in  sumptuous 
joviality  to  the  first ;  but  those  who  were  enrolled,  pledged  them- 
selves to  enjoy  life  in  company  unto  death.  The  viands  had  a 
flavour  of  the  grave  in  midst  of  their  costly  exquisiteness ;  and 
the  festive  enjoyment  was  mingled  with  a  desperate  sense  of  mor- 
tality. This  reckless  hilarity  was  as  if  to  cast  off  the  foreshadow- 
ing of  coming  fate.  Cleopatra  studied  the  natures  and  effects  of 
various  poisons.  She  watched  the  different  modes  of  death  re- 
sulting from  the  venom  of  sundry  kinds  of  snakes  and  adders,  to 
discover  those  which  caused  least  pain,  and  rendered  dismissal 
most  easy.  She  built  near  to  the  temple  of  Isis,  a  superb  monu- 
ment, or  tomb,  of  great  size  and  beauty  ;  where  she  collected  all 
the  treasures  and  precious  objects  derived  from  her  royal  ances- 
tors, in  gold,  silver,  emeralds,  pearls,  ebony,  ivory,  and  cinnamon, 

10 


74 


CLEOPATRA. 


together  witli  a  large  number  of  torclies,  faggots,  and  flax.  It 
seemed  as  tliougli  slie  beheld  the  menace  of  death,  constantly  and 
certainly,  before  her ;  and  only  meditated  which  way  she  could 
step  to  meet  it  with  smallest  shock  to  her  sensuous  nature. 

Meantime,  Octavius  Csesar  was  rapidly  and  surely  gaining 
ground.  Antony  succeeded  in  repulsing  him,  when  he  encamped 
near  the  city ;  but  this  temporary  defeat  of  his  enemy,  was  sjoeedily 
followed  by  his  own  final  ov,erthrow.  He  beheld  his  men  forsake 
him,  and  go  over  to  the  advancing  army;  and,  believing  that 
Cleopatra  had  betrayed  him,  he  broke  forth  into  fury  against  her 
suspected  treachery.  She,  in  terror  at  his  wrath,  took  refuge  in 
her  monument ;  and  caused  the  report  of  her  death  to  be  conveyed 
to  him.  Marc  Antony,  overAvhelmed  with  grief  at  her  loss,  and 
reproaching  himself  with  Avant  of  manhood  for  suffering  a  woman  to 
precede  him  in  encountering  death,  attempted  to  stab  himself  with 
his  own  sword.  The  wound  was  not  immediately  mortal,  and  he 
prayed  those  around  to  despatch  him ;  but  Cleopatra,  sending  her 
secretary,  Diomedes,  to  fetch  him  to  her  monument,  he  was  con- 
veyed thither  in  a  dying  state.  Unwilling  to  oj)en  the  gates,  she 
had  Marc  Antony  drawn  up  by  ropes  to  the  window  ;  herself  aid- 
ing her  two  women  (who  were  the  only  persons  she  had  allowed 
to  accompany  her  into  the  monument)  to  raise  him.  This  personal 
exertion  on  her  part,  is  actually  described : — "  It  was  a  hard  thing 
for  these  women  to  do,  to  lift  him  up ;  but  Cleopatra  stooping 
down  her  head,  putting  too  all  her  strength  to  her  uttermost 
power,  did  lift  him  up  with  much  ado,  and  never  let  go  her  hold." 
She  received  him  in  her  arms,  dried  the  blood  from  his  face,  and 
poured  forth  a  passion  of  caresses  and  lamen tings ;  but  Antony 
besought  her  to  cease,  and  listen  to  his  last  entreaties.  He  called 
for  wine ;  drank,  and  then  earnestly  prayed  her  to  endeavour  to 
save  her  life,  if  possible  without  dishonour,  bidding  her  trust  no 


CLEOPATEA. 


75 


man  about  Caesar  but  Proculeius.  With  all  the  comforting  and 
encouraging  words  lie  could  frame  to  sustain  her,  he  continued 
whde  breath  lasted  to  speak  to  her,  and  expired,  Cleopatra  occu- 
pying his  sole  thought.  •  .  • 

Marc  Antony  was  but  just  dead,  when  Proculeius  arrived,  sent  by 
Octavius  Caesar ;  who,  having  heard  that  Antony  had  killed  himself, 
was  anxious  lest  Cleopatra  should  destroy  herself  and  her  treasure 
together  by  setting  fire  to  the  monument,  and  so  deprive  him  of 
his  expected  booty,  and  his  hoped-for  triumph  of  leading  her  as  his 
prisoner  to  Eome.  Cleopatra  held  parley  with  Proculeius,  but 
would  by  no  means  trust  him  so  far  as  to  admit  him  into  the  monu- 
ment. The  emissary  said  all  he  could  to  inspire  her  with  confi- 
dence in  Octavius ;  and  she,  with  her  usual  tact,  made  stipulations 
that  the  kingdom  of  Egypt  should  devolve  upon  her  sons.  Procu^ 
leius  assured  her  that  she  might  securely  leave  all  in  Csesar's  hands  ; 
and,  having  made  accurate  inspection  of  the  place,  returned  with 
an  account  of  his  interview.  Octavius  sent  again  ;  instructing  his 
messenger  to  hold  Cleopatra  in  talk  at  the  gate  of  the  monument, 
while  Proculeius,  by  means  of  a  ladder,  made  good  his  entrance 
above. 

One  of  her  women,  observing  his  approach,  shrieked  out  to  her 
royal  mistress ;  who  drew  a  dagger  she  wore  about  her,  and  would 
have  made  away  with  herself.  But  Proculeius  held  her  hand  ;  and 
entreating  her  to  put  trust  in  Caesar,  disarmed  her. '  Octavius  had 
her  strictly  guarded,  and  watched,  that  she  might  not  destroy 
herself ;  but  in  all  other  respects  caused  her  to  be  treated  with 
utmost  courtesy,  while  he  himself  made  his  entry  into  Alexandria. 
Many  princes  and  commanders  sent  to  entreat  for  Marc  Antony's 
body,  that  they  might  give  him  honourable  burial ;  but  Octavius 
Cgesar  would  not  take  it  from  Cleopatra,  whom  he  permitted  to  use 
what  treasure  she  chose  in  performing  the  funeral  obsequies.  She 


76 


CLEOPATRA. 


sumptuously  and  royally  buried  Antony  with  her  own  hands  ;  and 
immolated  upon  his  ashes  heaps  of  wealth— that  of  her  beauty  in 
eluded,  mangling  her  face  and  bosom,  and  abandoning  herself  tc 
extravagance  of  grief. 

Overcome  with  passionate  sorrow,  she  fell  into  a  fever  of  dis- 
traction ;  which  she  rejoiced  at,  as  affording  her  a  pretext  for  ab- 
staining from  food,  and  so  dying  without  trouble.    She  had  a  phy- 
sician named  Olympus,  to  whom  she  confided  this  intent,  in  order 
that  he  might  assist  to  rid  her  of  life,  as  he  himself  recorded  in  a 
book  he  wrote.     But  Octavius,  conjecturing  her  purpose,  by 
threatening  her  children  with  a  shameful  death  if  she  persevered 
in  starving  herself,  succeeded  in  inducing  her  to  take  her  usual 
diet,  and  submit  to  be  cured.    Shortly  after,  Octavius  Caesar  came 
himself  in  person  to  see  her  and  comfort  her.    Cleopatra  received 
him  lying  upon  a  little  low  bed,  forlorn  and  disconsolate ;  and 
when  she  saw  him  enter,  rose  up,  and  cast  herself  at  his  feet,  just 
as  she  was,  disrobed  and  disfigured,  her-hair  in  disorder,  her  face 
pale  and  lacerated,  her  eyes  sunk  in  her  head  with  continual  weep- 
ing, her  bosom  bearing  the  marks  she  had  inflicted  in  her  anguish, 
her  voice  weak  and  trembling.    lu  short,  her  body  showed  the 
condition  of  her  mind ;  and  yet  the  natural  grace  and  comeliness 
peculiar  to  her,  gave  a  charm  beyond  beauty  to  the  kneeling  queen. 

Caesar  raised  her  from  the  ground,  made  her  lie  down  again,  and 
seated  himself  by  her  bedside ;  while  Cleopatra  entered  upon  a 
vindication  of  her  conduct,  seeking  to  excuse  and  clear  herself 
from  blame.  Octavius,  in  his  calm  cold  way,  refuted  every  point 
she  advanced.  Then  she  suddenly  altered  her  speech,  and 
besought  his  clemency;  as  though  she  feared  death,  and  were 
anxious  to  live.  Next,  she  gave  him  a  written  memorial  of  all 
the  ready  money  and  treasure  she  had.  But  there  chanced  to  be 
present,  Seleucus,  one  of  her  treasurers ;  who,  to  evince  his  probity, 


CLEOPATRA 


11 


Stated  that  Cleopatra  liad  not  inserted  all,  but  had  kept  many 
things  back  on  purpose.  This  so  enraged  Cleopatra,  that  she  flew 
upon  him,  seized  him  by  the  hair  of  his  head,  and  soundly  boxed 
his  ears.  Cgesar  was  highly  amused,  and  rescued  the  man.  Upon 
which,  Cleopatra  took  a  deprecatory  tone ;  said  it  was  hard  that 
when  Csesar  took  the  pains  to  come  to  her,  and  so  honoured  her, 
her  own  servants  should  accuse  her  to  him  ;  that  she  had  but  re- 
served some  few  jewels  and  woman's  trifles,  not  for  herself, — not 
to  deck  her  unhappy  self  withal,— but  intending  them  as  presents 
for  Octavia  and  Livia,  that  they  might  intercede  with  Cfesar  for 
favour  and  mercy.  Csesar,  pleased  to  hear  her  say  this,  which 
looked  like  a  desire  to  save  her  life,  spoke  encouragingly  to  her, 
assured  her  of  his  protection,  and  promised  to  use  her  more  hon- 
ourably and  bountifully  than  she  had  any  idea  of,  and  took  leave, 
imagining  that  he  had  successfully  imposed  upon  her  credulity, 
and  taught  her  to  trust  in  his  good  faith.  But  he  little  knew 
Cleopatra.  She  had  deluded  him;  not  he,  her.  The  passionless 
Octavius  might  be  unassailable  by  the  witchery  of  Cleopatra ;  but 
he  was  not  proof  against  her  practised  skill  in  winding  men's  judg- 
ments as  she  wished.  She  could  not  subjugate  his  senses  ;  but  she 
beguiled  his  sense  into  construmg  dropped  hints  as  she  intended. 

Cleopatra  took  advantage  of  the  professions  Octavius  Csesar 
had  made  her,  by  sending  to  request  that  he  would  allow  her  to 
offer  the  last  oblations  of  the  dead  to  the  soul  of  Antony ;  and 
secretly  resolved  to  defeat  Octavius's  projected  triumph,  by  her 
own  death.  The  narrative  is  so  eloquently  told  in  Plutarch,  that 
he  shall  be  again  quoted  :— "  She  was  carried  to  the  place  where 
his  tomb  was,  and  there  falling  down  on  her  knees,  embracing  it, 
the  tears  running  down  her  cheeks,  she  said  :— '  O  my  dear  lord, 
Antonius,  it  is  not  long  since  I  buried  thee  here,  being  a  free  wo- 
man ;  and  now  I  offer  unto  thee  the  funeral  sprinklings  and  obla- 


T8 


CLEOPATRA. 


tions,  being  a  captive  and  prisoner ;  and  yet  I  am  forbidden  and 
kej^t  from  tearing  and  murtliering  tliis  captive  body  of  mine  with 
blows,  wliich  they  carefully  guard  and  keep,  only  to  triumph  of 
thee.  Look  therefore  henceforth  for  no  other  honours,  offerings, 
nor  sacrifices  from  me ;  for  these  are  the  last  which  Cleopatra  can 
give  thee,  since  now  they  carry  her  away.  Whilst  we  lived  to- 
gether, nothing  could  sever  our  company ;  but  now  at  our  death, 
I  fear  me  they  will  make  us  change  our  countries.  For  as  thou, 
being  a  Roman,  hast  been  buried  in  Egypt,  even  so,  wretched  crea- 
ture, I,  an  Egyptian,  shall  be  buried  in  Italy,  which  shall  be  all 
the  good  that  I  have  received  by  thy  country.  If  therefore,  the 
gods  where  thou  art  now  have  any  power  and  authority,  since  our 
gods  here  have  forsaken  us,  suffer  not  thy  true  friend  and  lover  to 
be  carried  away  alive,  that  in  me  they  triumj^h  of  thee ;  but  re- 
ceive me  with  thee,  and  let  me  be  buried  in  one  self  tomb  with 
thee.  For  though  my  griefs  and  miseries  be  infinite,  yet  none  hath 
grieved  me  more,  nor  that  I  could  less  bear  withal,  than  this 
small  time  which  I  have  been  driven  to  live  alone  without  thee.' 
Then,  having  ended  these  doleful  plaints,  and  crowned  the  tomb 
with -garlands  and  sundry  nosegays,  and  marvellous  lovingly  em- 
braced the  same,  she  commanded  they  should  prepare  her  bath  ; 
and  when  she  had  bathed  and  washed  herself,  she  fell  to  her  meat 
and  was  sumptuously  served.  Now  while  she  was  at  dinner,  there 
came  a  countryman,  and  brought  her  a  basket.  The  soldiers  that 
warded  at  the  gates,  asked  him  straight  what  he  had  in  his 
basket.  He  opened  his  basket,  and  took  out  the  leaves  that  cov- 
ered the  figs,  and  showed  them  that  they  were  figs  he  brought. 
They  all  of  them  marvelled  to  see  so  goodly  figs.  The  country- 
man laughed  to  hear  them,  and  bade  them  take  some  if  they 
would.  They  believed  he  told  them  truly ;  and  so  bade  him  carry 
them  in.    After  Cleopatra  had  dined,  she  sent  a  certain  table  writ- 


CLEOPATRA. 


ten  and  sealed  unto  Csesar,  and  commanded  tliem  all  to  go  out  of 
tlie  tomb  wliere  slie  was,  but  tlie  two  women ;  tben  sbe  sbut  tbe 
doors  to  ber.    Csesar,  wben  be  received  tbis  table,  and  began  to 
read  ber  lamentation  and  petition,  requesting  bim  tbat  be  would 
let  ber  be  buried  witb  Antonius,  found  straigbt  wbat  sbe  meant, 
and  tbou^bt  to  bave  gone  tbitber  bimself ;  bowbeit  be  sent  one 
before,  in  all  baste,  to  see  wbat  it  was.    Her  deatb  was  very  sud- 
den ;  for  tbose  wbom  Csesar  sent  unto  ner,  ran  tbitber  in  all  baste 
possible,  and  found  tbe  soldiers  standing  at  tbe  gate,  mistrusting 
notbing,  nor  understanding  of  ber  deatb.    But  wben  tbey  opened 
tbe  doors,  tbey  found  Cleopatra  stark  dead,  laid  upon  a  bed  of 
gold,  attired  and  arrayed  in  ber  royal  robes,  and  one  of  ber  two 
women,  wbicb  was  called  Iras,  dead  at  ber  feet ;  and  ber  otber  wo- 
man, called  Cbarmian,  balf  dead  and  trembling,  trimming  tbe  dia- 
dem wbicb  Cleopatra  wore  upon  ber  bead.    One  of  tbe  soldiers, 
seeing  ber,  angrily  said  unto  ber  : — '  Is  tbat  well  done,  Cbarmian  ? ' 
'  Very  well,'  said  sbe  again,  '  and  meet  for  a  princess  descended 
from  tbe  race  of  so  many  noble  kings.'    Sbe  said  no  more  ;  but 
fell  down  dead,  bard  by  tbe  bed.    Some  report  tbat  tbis  aspic  was 
brougbt  unto  ber  in  tbe  basket  witb  figs,  and  tbat  sbe  bad  com- 
manded tbem  to  bide  it  under  tbe  fig  leaves,  tbat  wben  sbe  sbould 
tbink  to  take  out  tbe  figs,  tbe  aspic  sbould  bite  ber  before  sbe 
sbould  see  it ;  bowbeit,  tbat  wben  sbe  would  bave  taken  away  tbe 
leaves  for  tbe  figs  sbe  perceived  it,  and  said : — '  Art  tbou  bere, 
tben  ? '    And  so,  ber  arm  being  naked,  sbe  put  it  to  tbe  aspic  to 
be  bitten.    Otbers  say  again,  tbat  sbe  kept  it  in  a  box  ;  and  tbat 
sbe  did  prick  and  tbrust  it  witb  a  spindle  of  gold,  so  tbat  tbe  aspic 
being  angered  witbal,  leapt  out  witb  great  fury,  and  bit  ber  in  tbe 
arm.    Howbeit,  few  can  tell  tbe  trutb.    For  tbey  report  also,  tbat 
sbe  bad  bidden  poison  in  a  boUow  razor,  wbicb  sbe  carried  in  tbe 
hair  of  ber  bead;  and  yet  tbere  wai  no  mark  seen  on  ber  body, 


80 


CLEOPATRA 


or  any  sign  discerned  that  slie  was  poisoned,  neither  also  did  they 
find  this  serpent  in  her  tomb ;  but  it  was  reported  only,  that  there 
were  seen  certain  fresh  tracks  where  it  had  gone,  on  the  tomb  side 
toward  the  sea,  and  especially  by  the  door  side.  Some  say,  also, 
that  they  found  two  little  pretty  bitings  in  her  arm,  scant  to  be 
discerned;  the  which  it  seemeth  Csesar  himself  gave  credit  unto, 
because  in  his  triumph  he  carried  Cleopatra's  image,  with  an  aspic 
biting  of  her  arm.  Now  Ctesar,  though  he  was  marvellous  sorry 
for  the  death  of  Cleopatra,  yet  he  wondered  at  her  noble  mind  and 
courage ;  and  therefore  commanded  she  should  be  nobly  buried, 
and  layed  by  Antonius.  Cleopatra  died,  being  eight  and  thirty 
years  old  ;  after  she  had  reigned  two  and  twenty  years,  and  gov- 
erned about  fourteen  of  them  with  Antonius." 

Shakespeare,  with  his  fine  knowledge  that  truth  to  Nature  is 
most  powerful  for  producing  effect  in  Dramatic  Art,  has  adhered 
with  singular  closeness  to  the  history  of  Cleopatra  ;  weaving  the 
incidents  of  the  narrative  with  extraordinary  skill  and  fidelity  into 
his  poetic  play,  and  drawing  her  character  in  strict  resemblance 
with  the  original  portrait  of  the  real  woman.  The  heightening 
touches  that  he  has  added,  are  precisely  in  keeping ;  and  are  just 
such  as  his  genius  alone  knew  how  to  supply,  deducing  them  from 
the  broad  sketch,  and  filling  them  in  harmoniously  with  the  exist- 
ing outline.  The  fact  is,  we  can  hardly  separate  the  idea  of  Us 
Cleopatra  from  Cleopatra  herself;  and  when  we  think  of  her,  we 
think  of  her  as  he  has  painted  her.  Who  but  himself  could  have 
so  finished  the  picture— presenting  her  to  our  knowledge  with 
more  visible  completeness  than  history  itself?  Plutarch  has  given 
us  the  queen  and  woman,  Cleopatra,  in  curiously  particularized 
detail  of  person,  speech,  act,  and  manner,  as  she  lived ;  Shake- 
speare makes  her  appear,  speak,  move,  breathe,  and  live  again 
before  us.    He  has  caused  us  to  behold  her  in  all  that  marked  in- 


CLEOPATRA. 


81 


dividuality,  in  those  minute  by-"betrayals  of  character,  wliicli  only 
either  personal  knowledge,  or  Shakespeare's  page,  enables  us  to 
witness.  No  poet  but  himself  has  drawn  Cleopatra  in  her  true 
identity,  although  she  has  formed  the  theme  of  several.  Chaucer 
has  depicted  her  as  the  ladye-love  of  chivalry,  bewailing  "her 
knight,  Antonius"  (!),  and  throwing  herself  into  a  pit  of  serpents 
for  his  sake,  like  a  heroine  of  old  romance.  Corneille's  Cleopatra 
has  scarcely  a  trait  of  character  in  consonance  with  historic  truth. 
The  author  owns,— in  his  analysis  of  the  play  (Pompee),— that  he 
makes  her  merely  ambitious  in  love.  Faithful  to  the  requirements 
of  conventional  tragic  dignity,  he  drew  her  portrait  according  to 
the  pattern  of  French  tragedy-queens  ;  and  left  her  with  hardly  a 
touch  of  individuality.  Perhaps  the  one  couplet  that  may  be  cited 
as  containing  any  approach  to  Cleopatran  nature,  in  its  regal  con- 
sciousness of  power  to  captivate,  is  where  he  makes  her  say  : — 

"  Apprends  qu'une  princesse  aimant  sa  renommee, 
Quand  elle  dit  qu'elle  aime,  est  sure  d'etre  aimee." 

[Know,  that  a  queen,  whose  fame's  her  concern. 
When  she  owns  that  she  loves,  must  be  loved  in  return.] 

Fletcher,  in  his  play  of  "  The  False  One,"  shows  her  in  her 
early  youth,  in  her  first  adventure,  with  Julius  Cassar;  and  it 
suffices  for  her  in  her  "  sallet  days,"  although  the  character  is  too 
sustained  in  dignity,  too  consistent  in  nobility  of  feeling  and  dic- 
tion, for  the  wayward,  variable  Cleopatra.  The  descriptions  given 
of  her  might  suit  any  other  charming  heroine  : — 

"  By  this  light,  the  woman's  a  rare  woman ; 
A  lady  of  that  catching  youth  and  beauty. 
That  unmatched  sweetness  ." 

"  Eyes  that  are  the  winning'st  orators, 
A  youth  that  opens  like  perpetual  spring, 
And,  to  all  these,  a  tongue  that  can  deliver 
The  oracles  of  love." 

11 


82 


0  L  E  0  P  A  aui  A  . 


In  tlie  first  interview  witli  Julius  Caesar,  where  slie  is  brouglit 
in  the  mattress  to  his  chamber,  her  speech  and  manner  are  ingeni- 
ously tinctured  with  the  delicate  flattery  by  which  she  won  him  ; 
while  the  most  characteristic  things  she  utters  in  the  course  of  tlie 
play  are  the  following  passages : — 

"  Oh,  I  could  curse  myself,  that  was  so  foolish. 
So  fondly  childish,  to  believe  his  tongue, 
ii'is  pvomis'ing  tongue,  ere  I  coidd  catch  his  teni]?er." 

And : — 

"  I  will  go  study  mischief, 
And  put  a  look  on,  arm'd  with  all  my  cunnings, 
Shall  meet  him  like  a  basilisk,  and  strike  him  ! 
Love,  put  destroying  flames  into  mine  eyes. 
Into  my  smiles  deceits,  that  I  may  torture  him. 
That  I  may  malic  him  love  to  death,  and  laugh  at  him  !  " 

And  as^ain : — 

"  I  love  with  as  much  ambition  as  a  conqueror. 
And  where  I  love  will  triumph  !  " 

There  is  the  future  Cleopatra  in  those  touches  ;  but  they  occur 
as  exceptions  to  the  general  smooth  grace  with  which  Fletcher  has 
delineated  her. 

Dryden,  like  Shakespeare,  paraphrased  Plutarch's  account  of 
Cleopatra's  saiHng  up  the  river  Cydnus  to  meet  Marc  Antony ; 
and  he  has  paralleled  in  his  play  of  "  All  for  Love,"  several  other 
of  the  descriptive  passages  in  "  Antony  and  Cleopatra,"  with  rich 
poetic  beauty.  But  the  dramatic  discrimination  and  develop- 
ment of  Cleopatran  character,  so  masterfully  achieved  by  Shake- 
speare, is  wholly  wanting  in  Dryden.  He  has  made  her  a  tender, 
impassioned  woman, — the  fitting  heroine  for  "All  for  Love,  or  the 
World  well  lost ;  "  but  not  the  renowned  Egyptian  queen, — that 
wondrous  combination  of  all  that  is  winning,  with  so  much  that  is 
repulsive, — all  that  is  enchanting,  with  so  much  that  is  despicable, 


C  L  B  0  P  A  T  11  A . 


83 


— whicli  Shakespeare  lias  compouucled  into  one  gorgeously  vivid 
impersonation.  Dryden's  most  individual  Ht,  is  where  lie  makes 
Cleopatra  exclaim : — 

■'  Come  to  me,  come,  my  soldier,  to  my  arms  !  . 
You liave  been  too  long  away  from  my  embraces; 
But  when  I  have  you  fast,  and  all' my  own. 
With  broken  murmurs  and  with  amorous  sighs, 
I'll  say  you  were  unkind,  and  punish  you, 
And  marlc  you  red  -with  many  an  eager  kiss.'" 

Leigli  Hunt  has  hit  off  the  spirit  of  Cleopatra,  when  he  alludes 
to  her  as : — 

"  That  southern  beam. 
The  laughing  queen  that  caught  the  world's  great  hands.' 

And  Horace  sums  her  magic  influence  in  two  words,  where  he 
calls  her  "fatal  prodigy"  ["fatale  monstrum."] 

But,  both  by  description,  and  self-revealment,  Shakespeare  has 
exhibited  her  character  in  its  true  and  full  nature.  Diversified, 
yet  complete ;  inconsistent,  yet  in  keeping ;  whimsical,  yet  dii-ect 
of  purpose ;  replete  with  jarring  elements,  yet  in  perfect  conso- 
nance with  itself.  In  what  is  said  of  her,  in  what  is  said  to  her,  in 
what  she  says  herself,  he  makes  us  equally  behold  the  actual 
woman,  Cleopatra. 

Enobarbus  speaks  of  her  thus  :— 

"  Age  cannot  wither  her,  nor  custom  stale 
Her  infinite  variety :    Other  women 
Cloy  the  appetites  they  feed;  but  she  makes  hungry 
Where  most  she  satisfies.    For  vilest  things 
Become  themselves  in  her." 

Antony  addresses  her  with  • — 

"  Fie,  wrangling  queen  ! 
Whom  every  thing  becomes, — to  chide,  to  laugh, 
To  weep ;  whose  every  passion  fully  strives 
To  make  itself  in  thee,  fair  and  admired !  " 


84 


CLEOPATRA. 


And  she,  musing  of  Antony  in  liis  absence,  and  wondering 
whether  he  thinks  of  her,  says, — with  a  fine  daring  disj)aragement 
of  her  oriental  sun-emlbrowned  complexion,  secure  in  its  spell  upon 
men's  warm  imaginations  :— 

"  Think  on  me, 
That  am  with  Phoebus'  amorous  pinches  bhxck, 
And  wrinkled  deep  in  time  ?    Broad-fronted  Csesar, 
When  thou  wast  here  above  the  ground,  I  was 
A  morsel  for  a  monarch  :  and  great  Pompey 
Would  stand,  and  make  his  eyes  grow  in  my  brow  ; 
There  would  he  anchor  his  aspect,  and  die 
With  looking  on  his  life." 

One  of  the  most  perfect  touches  of  characteristic  individuality 
in  all  that  Cleopatra  utters,  is  that  little  question ; — "  What  says 
the  married  luoman  ?  "  when  asking  Antony  of  his  wife  Fulvia.  It 
is  a  fine  piece  of  pungent  insolence — exquisitely  Cleopatran. 

Shakespeare's  e23ithets  for  Cleopatra,  come  into  the  mind  in- 
voluntarily when  speaking  of  her.  We  use  his  titles  for  her,  in 
naming  her,  while  relating  her  history.  The  "  serpent  of  old  Nile  " 
dwells  in  our  mind  as  her  proper  designation  ;  "  this  great  fairy," 
"great  Egypt,"  and  other  of  his  names, for  her,  belong  to  her  like 
her  own ;  but  there  is  one,  which  he  assigns  to  her,  that  wonder- 
fully distinguishes  Cleopatra,  in  her  mingled  regality  and  famili- 
arity of  womanhood.  Agrippa  calls  her  "  Koyal  wench  !  "  m  admi- 
ration at  her  sovereignty  in  attracting  men ;  and  it  finely  indi- 
vidualizes her  character  in  its  twofold  quality  of  queenly  sway 
with  feminine  fascination. 

The  great  secret  of  Cleopatra's  power  of  winning,  was  the 
instinctive  insight  she  possessed  into  men's  dispositions,  and  her 
exquisite  tact  in  discovering  their  vulnerable  points.  She  won 
Julius  Caesar  by  throwing  herself  into  his  power;  and  won  Marc 
Antony  by  exercising  her  power  over  him.    She  flattered  Julius 


CLEOPATRA. 


85 


Csesar's  love  of  dominion  by  submitting  herself  to  it ;  slie  swayed 
Marc  Antony's  heart  by  assuming  rule  there.  She  caused  herself 
to  be  carried  to  Julius  Caesar ;  she  bade  Marc  Antony  come  to  her. 
She  behaved  with  humility  and  deference  to  Julius ;  she  treated 
Antony  with  gay  despotism,  and  wayward  playfulness.  She  deriv- 
ed her  fortune,  and  held  her  crown  from  Julius  Csesar's  bestowal  ; 
she  outvied  Antony  in  costly  display  and  sumptuous  entertain- 
ment. 

Her  irresistible  allurement  lay  in  her  faculty  of  adapting  her- 
self to  men's  peculiar  tastes  and  predilections.  She  followed  Julius 
to  Eome ;  she  shared  Antony's  wildest  frolics.  The  ample  way  in 
which  she  at  once  understood  and  responded  to  Marc  Antony's 
propensities,  explains  the  unbounded  ascendency  attained  over 
him.  His  enjoyment,  his  gratification,  his  pleasure,  were  her 
study ;  and  to  minister  to  them,  her  delight.  Antony's  passion  for 
Cleopatra  was  a  luxurious  intoxication;  and  she  not  only  pre- 
sented him  the  voluptuous  draught,  but  drained  it  with  him. 

Cleopatra  is  enthroned  enchantress  of  the  world.  She  cap- 
tivated Julius  Csesar;  entranced  the  heart  and  senses  of  Marc 
Antony,  and  succeeded  in  beguiling  the  wary  Octavius.  She,  of  all 
her  sex,  in  her  person  gave  to  the  unworthy  art  of  coquetry,  a 
something  of  magnificent  and  lustrous  in  its  so-potent  exercise. 
Hers  was  the  poetry  of  coquetry. 


if 


"1  lijB-Applcloii 


SAIXT  CECILIA. 

Amois-g  tlie  firm-liearted  band  wlio  suJffered  persecution  and 
deatli  for  faith's  sake, — tlie  early  martyi'S,— one  of  tlie  most  sliin- 
ing  examples  is  Saint  Cecilia.  To  use  Fuller's  quaint  form  of  ex- 
pression : — "  She  lived  in  an  age  wHcli  we  may  call  the  first  cock- 
crowing  after  the  midnight  of  ignorance  and  superstition." 

The  events  which  mark  her  career  are  told  with  beautiful 
simplicity  in  the  "Golden  Legend"  ["Legenda  Aurea"]  ;  and 
Chaucer's  charming  version  of  the  story,  in  his  "Second  lean's 
Tale,"  is  almost  a  literal  rhythmical  translation  of  the  old  Latin 
legend.  The  details  furnished  in  the  "  Acta  S.  Csecilise  "  have  been 
arranged  into  narrative  order  with  hagiographical  zeal,  by  Dom 
Prosper  Gueranger,  Abbe  de  Solesmes  ;  who  has  traced  the  career 
of  the  Saint  through  her  life,  martyrdom,  and  posthumous  glory 
of  canonization,  in  a  no  less  picturesque  than  reverential  form, — and 
that  is  the  only  spirit  in  which  to  treat  a  subject  of  this  kind.  Its 
remote  antiquity,  which,  while  limiting  and  obscuring  authentic 
particulars,  tends  to  throw  an  air  of  poetry  and  idealiza,tion  over 
what  few  facts  are  known,  demands  a  certain  amount  of  child  like 
credence,  when  receiving  the  relation  of  such  histories.  The  mod- 
ern fashion  is  too  much  for  questioning  "  the  old  familiar  faces  " 
of  accepted  tradition.    We  are  too  fond  of  doubting  ;  we  are  too 


88 


SAINT  CECILIA. 


apt  to  discredit  every  tLing  that  we  cannot  prove.  As  Words- 
wortli,  in  liis  fine  sonnet  "  The  World  is  too  mucli  witli  us,"  pro- 
tests against  the  dimmed  perceptions  of  prosaic  getters  and  spend- 
ers ;  so  it  is  with  prosy  detecters  of  falsity  in  antique  records ;  their 
literal  accuracy  blinds  them  to  the  intermixture  of  larger  veracity 
which  may  be  gathered  from  the  very  fables  they  point  out  as 
wholly  fictitious.  They  cannot  discern  the  spirit  of  truth  that 
dwells  within  the  dubious  letter  of  legendary  lore.  The  sceptical 
sneerer  might  find  matter  for  questioning  pause,  in  some  of  the 
points  of  St.  Cecilia's  story  as  handed  down  to  posterity  by  vene- 
rating tradition ;  but  those  who  are  willing  to  perceive  the  lustre 
of  purity, — the  glory  of  apostleship,  and  the  courage  of  holiness, 
in  this  beautiful  legend,  will  take  pleasure  in  perusing  it  according 
to  narrated  account. 

Under  the  empire  of  Alexander  Severus,  the  persecution 
against  Christians,  which  previously  and  subsequently  was  carried 
on  with  terrific  virulence,  sustained  a  temporary  cessation,  owing 
to  the  influence  of  the  young  emperor's  mother,  Julia  Mammsea, 
who  entertained  much  regard  for  the  members  of  the  new  sect ; 
and  who,  if  Eusebius's  words  may  be  so  interpreted,  secretly  pro- 
fessed their  faith.  She  was  known  to  send  for  the  learned  and 
saintly  Origen,  from  Alexandria  to  Autiocli,  while  she  was  there  ; 
and  that  she  held  controversial  discourses  with  him,  and  loaded 
him  with  gifts  and  honours.  Mammsea  superintended  the  educa- 
tion of  her  son  herself;  remained  at  his  side  through  life  ;  helped 
him  with  her  counsel  in  state  alfairs ;  followed  him  to  the  field,  in 
all  his  campaigns  ;  and  even  shared  his  death,  when  he  fell  at  the 
head  of  his  troops,  on  the  banks  of  the  Ehine,  in  a  war  against 
the  Germans.  Coming  to  the  imperial  throne  when  at  so  early 
an  age  as  to  be  in  his  fourteenth  year  only,  he  might  probably 
have  embraced  the  same  form  of  relis^ion  as  his  mother,  had  not 


SAINT  CECILIA 


89 


policy  appointed  liis  creed  for  him ;  but  lie  nevertlieless  enter- 
tained a  regard  for  Christianity  and  its  Divine  Founder  which 
never  forsook  him.  The  portion  of  his  palace  dedicated  to  the  re- 
ception of  his  Lares,  or  household  gods,  not  only  contained  the 
statues  of  the  gods  and  of  those  emperors  most  worthy  of  regard  ; 
but  Severus  had  there  a  statue  of  Jesus  Christ  Himself,  to  which 
he  paid  divine  honours.  Lord  Bacon,  in  his  "  Advancement  of 
Learning,"  mentions  a  similar  circumstance  respecting  the  Emperor 
Adrian : — "  For  having  Christ  in  veneration,  not  as  a  God  or 
Saviour,  but  as  a  wonder  or  novelty ;  and  having  his  picture  in  his 
gallery,  matched  with  Apollonius,  with  whom  in  his  vain  imagina- 
tion, he  thought  he  had  some  conformity  ;  yet  it  served  the  turn 
to  allay  the  bitter  hatred  of  those  times  against  the  Christian 
name,  so  as  the  church  had  peace  during  his  time."  Alexander  Seve- 
rus's  admiration  went  so  far  as  to  induce  him  to  make  a  proposal 
that  the  Founder  of  a  religion,  so  pure  in  its  morality,  should 
be  admitted  among  the  rank  of  the  gods.  The  senate  desired  to 
consult  the  oracles  upon  this  extraordinary  proposition  of  the  em 
peror ;  and  according  to  Lampridius,  a  contemporary  writer,  the 
oracular  response  was,  that  if  this  new  apotheosis  were  celebrated, 
the  pagan  temples  would  be  abandoned,  and  all  men  would  be- 
come Christians. 

Other  particulars  recorded  of  this  emperor's  mild  conduct,  and 
of  his  enlightened  perception  of  the  fine  moral  influence  belong- 
ing to  the  new  faith,  deserve  mention.  The  grandly  comprehen- 
sive maxim : — "  As  ye  would  that  men  should  do  to  you,  do  ye  also 
to  them  likewise,"  was  always  in  his  mouth,  and  openly  avowed  as 
being  adopted  from  the  tenets  of  the  Christians.  He  caused  it  to 
be  graven  as  an  inscription  in  his  palace  ;  and  in  the  principal  pub- 
lic edifices.  By  his  order,  too,  a  herald  publicly  proclaimed  it,  in 
the  punishment  of  criminals.    His  regard  for  Christianity  extended 


90 


SAINT  CECILIA. 


to  individuals ;  and  several  official  ]30sts  about  his  own  court  were 
filled  by  Cliristians  wlio  enjoyed  his  favour.  A  signal  instance  of 
liis  wise  ordination  occurred  witli  regard  to  a  place  called  "  Taherna 
meritoria^ "  ["  A  place  for  public  entertainment ;" —  "A  Tavern  "]  ; 
wbicti,  becoming  dedicated  to  Christian  usage  under  the  pontificate 
of  Calixtus,  as  a  church,  occasioned  much  umbrage  to  the  original 
heathen  occupants ;  who  complained  to  Severus,  that  a  place  pre- 
viously theirs,  had  been  taken  from  them  and  consecrated  to  the 
service  of  a  religion  unrecognized  by  the  laws  of  the  emj^ire. 
Severus  replied  thus  nobly  :■ — "  I  would  rather  God  were  honoured 
in  this  spot,  in  whatever  form  of  worship,  than  see  it  again 
yielded  up  to  sellers  of  wine." 

But,  if  this  emperor  himself  were  thus  favourable  to  the  Chris- 
tians, there  was  a  large  body  of  influential  men  in  the  state  who 
beheld  with  abhorrence  and  dread  all  progress  of  the  new  sect  to- 
wards becoming  epideniical.  An  association  that  held  itself  firmly 
impassive  to  all  edicts  of  suppression,  seemed  to  them  a  monster 
that  could  not  be  too  speedily  crushed.  They  had  notable  example 
for  persecution  ;  even  for  decreeing  the  massacre  of  Christians,  they 
could  cite  strong  precedent.  Beneath  the  fierce  autocracy  of 
Nero,  the  leniency  of  Trajan,  and  the  philosophical  forbearance  of 
Marcus  Aurelius,  this  rising  body  had  alike  suffered  deadly  hostil- 
ity, Domitian  Ulpian,  who  held  the  office  of  Prsefectus  Prsetorio, 
under  Alexander  Severus,  was  one  of  the  chief  of  these  opposers 
of  Christianity ;  and  as  he  had  considerable  ascendency  over  the 
young  emperor's  mind,  his  animosity  against  the  Christians  acted 
in  counterbalance  to  the  maternal  influence  in  their  favour.  Popu- 
lar prejudice,  also,  was  largely  on  the  side  of  the  prevailing  power  ; 
and  Tertullian,- — in  his  "  Apologetic  Works,"  written  more  than 
thirty  years  before  the  period  here  treated  of, — remarks  that  on 
all  occasions  of  general  tumult,  the  multitude  were  accustomed  to 


SAINT  CECILIA. 


dl 


yell  forth  tlieir  barbarous  cry, — "  To  the  lions  with  the  Christians  !  " 
Thus,  notwithstanding  the  tolerance  of  the  emperor  himself  to- 
wards the  oppressed  sect — a  tolerance  which  was  more  negative 
than  active — several  martyrdoms  of  the  early  Christians  took  place 
during  his  reign,  both  in  the  Boman  dominions,  and  in  Rome  itself. 
The  names  of  Calepodius,  Palmatius,  Simplicius,  Martina,  and  Ta- 
tiana,  have  reached  us  as  among  the  victims  who  fell  sacrifices  here  ; 
■ — and  Po]3e  Calixtus — one  of  the  earliest  Christian  pontiffs — died  a 
martyr  to  the  proscribed  faith. 

Pope  Urban,  his  successor,  had  been  twice  summoned  before 
the  Prsetorium  ;  and  had  each  time  boldly  avouched  the  free  right 
of  his  ministry.  But  after  that,  he  could  no  longer  abide  within 
the  interior  of  the  city ;  and  appearing  but  at  rare  intervals  in 
Rome,  with  secrecy  and  circumspection,  he  took  refuge  from  his 
enemies,  by  lurking  in  its  precincts,  concealed  and  apart.  His 
place  of  retreat  was  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  sacred  Crypts  of 
the  A]3pian  Way,  near  the  tombs  of  the  martyrs.  It  was  there 
he  exercised  his  holy  function,  receiving  into  the  bosom  of  the 
church  such  heathens  as  were  touched  by  grace,  admonishing  the 
vacillating,  and  fortifying  the  faithful.  A  few  priests  and  deacons 
assisted  him,  sharing  his  duties  and  his  perils.  Along  the  path 
leading  to  the  pontiff's  retreat,  were  scattered  some  of  those  lowly 
poor,  whose  brethren  were  preached  to  by  the  Saviour  himself, 
watching  as  devoted  and  vigilant  sentinels.  Known  to  the  Chris- 
tians in  Rome,  they  were  the  intermediaries  between  the  church 
and  her  Head ;  and  served  to  screen  from  the  eyes  of  the  Praeto- 
rian emissaries  any  trace  of  those  secret  communications  which 
maintained  the  vitality  of  the  Christian  church. 

A  sketch  of  the  Appian  Way,  as  it  existed  in  the  third  century 
— the  period  when  Saint  Cecilia  lived — will  best  usher  in  her  story 
with  appropriately  scenic  interest,  and  give  it  imaged  reality  of 


92 


SAINT  CECILIA. 


occurrence.  Moreover,  this  picturesque  track  forms  a  kind  of  link 
between  tlie  Rome  of  tlie  Gentiles,  and  the  Rome  of  the  Chris- 
tians ;  between  the  eternal  city,  and  the  centre  of  Christendom ; 
between  ancient  Rome,  surnamed  "Mistress  of  the  World,"  and  the 
nucleus  of  that  Spiritual  Kingdom  founded  on  the  "Rock  of 
Ages."  It  presents  a  vast  and  sumptuous  gallery  of  pagan  sepul- 
chres dedicated  to  the  entombment  of  illustrious  Roman  families  ; 
while  beneath  the  soil  supporting  these  numberless  fine  monu- 
ments, the  very  ruins  of  which  still  excite  wonder  and  admiration, 
there  lies  a  consecrated  labyrinth,  within  whose  shade  sleep  a  mar- 
tyr legion.  The  grandeur  and  solemnity  of  this  renowned  Way 
are  unequalled;  which, — at  the  epoch  when  Alexander  Severus, 
was  emperor,  and  when  the  city  was  enclosed  on  that  side  by  the 
walls  of  Servius  TuUius,  commenced  at  the  Capenian  Gate,  and 
led  out  towards  the  Campagna.  Traversing  the  plain,  its  line 
marked  by  superb  villas,  and  temples  of  severe  or  graceful  styles 
in  architecture,  its  principal  embellishment  consisted  in  the  double 
range  of  tombs  extending  for  more  than  fourteen  miles  on  each 
side  of  the  way.  The  pavement,  formed  of  large  masses  of  lava, 
proclaims  the  magnificence  and  solidity  of  the  works  of  a  regal 
people  ;  and  on  it  may  be  traced  deep-indented  ruts,  made  by  the 
chariot-wheels  of  Romans,  more  than  two  thousand  years  since. 
Somewhat  narrow,  like  all  the  ancient  roads,  the  Appian  Way  was 
confined  between  two  foot  paths,  on  the  borders  of  which  rose  the 
sepulchres.  The  form  of  these  funereal  monuments  was  varied : 
some  appeared  like  temples,  of  grave  or  elegant  design ;  others 
wore  the  circular  shape  of  a  tower ;  many  were  reared  in  pyram- 
idal form;  and  others  again  were  quadrilateral.  These  sepul- 
chres were  in  some  instances  appropriated  to  individuals,  in  others 
to  entire  families.  In  some  cases  the  body  reposed  in  a  sarcopha- 
gus, while  in  others  the  tomb  contained  only  the  ashes  of  the  de- 


SAINT  CECILIA. 


93 


ceased,  according  to  tlie  customs  introduced  in  Rome  towards  the 
close  of  the  Eepublic.  Besides  the  tombs,  the  Appian  Way  con- 
tained likewise  those  pigeon-holed  receptacles,  ["  columbaria,"]  in 
which  a  large  number  of  urns  were  deposited,  containing  the  ashes 
of  several  generations.  All  this  assemblage  of  sepulchres  imparted 
to  the  Way  an  aspect  of  mournfalness,  which  contrasted  strikingly 
with  the  luxury  and  richness  of  the  buildings  that  formed  a  back- 
ground to  these  avenues  of  death.  The  pagans  themselves  were 
sensible  of  this  lesson  upon  the  nothingness  of  hfe,  afforded  by 
choosing  a  public  way  as  a  place  for  entombment ;  while  the  Chris- 
tians completed  the  monition,  by  hollowing  beneath  the  soil  of  the 
Appian  Way  itself,  whole  cities  of  sepulchral  abode,  destined  not 
only  to  recall  to  mankind  the  thought  of  mortality,  but  to  raise 
them  to  the  contemplation  of  immortal  trust. 

One  of  the  poets  in  the  early  period  of  the  Eoman  empire — 
Statins — in  his  "  Sylvse,"  entitles  this  majestic  road  "the  Queen  of 
Ways  "  ["  Regina  viarum  "]  ;  and  thus  it  appeared,  in  its  general 
aspect,  at  the  time  he  wrote. 

Calixtus,  during  his  pontificate,  was  unwearied  in  his  zealous 
care  to  protect  the  sacred  crypts  beneath  the  Appian  Way,  and  to 
preserve  from  desecration  the  saintly  and  apostolic  remains  they 
enshrouded.  He  persevered  in  his  pious  work  ;  and  the  Christians 
retained  as  their  sanctuary  these  subterranean  burial-places,  known 
under  the  name  of  catacombs.  Skirting  the  Appian  Way,  at  some 
little  distance,  there  rises  a  gentle  eminence,  just  above  a  spot 
which  tradition  asserts  to  be  the  site  of  the  grotto  and  fountains 
of  Egeria.  Here  there  was  a  temple  erected  in  the  time  of  the 
Roman  Republic ;  and  here  it  was,  that  Pope  Urban  found  a  safe 
retreat.  An  oratory  excavated  beneath  the  earth,— under  the 
very  pagan  temple  which  has  since  been  consecrated  as  a  church, 
bearing  the  name  of  St.  Urban, — and  having  communication  with 


94 


SAINT  CECILIA. 


the  extensive  range  of  subterranean  crypts,  afforded  a  secure 
refuge  aloof  from  public  notice,  and  allowed  of  access  and  inter- 
course with  the  Christians. 

Among  the  flock  of  the  faithful,  who  revered  Urban  as  their 
visible  head,  who  resorted  to  him  for  counsel  and  instruction,  and 
who  enjoyed  his  peculiar  favour  for  her  piety  and  innocence,  was 
the  youthful  Cecilia.  Daughter  of  a  noble  Eoman  house  (some 
asserting  her  to  be  a  descendant  of  the  same  family  with  that  Ceci- 
lia Metella  whose  sumptuous  pagan  monument  adorns  the  Appian 
Way,— now,  even  in  decay,  serving  as  a  notable  adornment  to  the 
place),  she  had  early  adopted  the  Christian  faith,  although  her 
parents  adhered  to  the  old  heathen  form  of  worship.  An  ancient 
tradition  in  Kome  assigns  the  Campus  Martins  as  the  site  where 
the  house  stood  in  which  Cecilia  was  born,  during  the  early  part 
of  the  thiiTl  century ;  and  a  church  was  erected  there  in  the  eigh- 
teenth century,  by  Pope  Benedict  XIII.,  bearing  the  inscription  :— 
"  This  is  the  house  in  which  Saint  Cecilia  prayed." 

.    ,  IIAEO  EST  DOMVS 

IN  QVA  OEABAT 
SAKCTA  CAECILIA. 

Her  father  and  mother  appear  to  have  offered  no  obstruction 
to  the  course  of  their  daughter's  religious  opinions ;  which  had 
already  obtained  many  followers  in  Eome,  and  which  counted  pro- 
fessors even  in  the  imperial  household  itself.  Either  from  indif- 
ference, or  from  affection,  they  permitted  her  to  pursue  her  own 
form  of  doctine,  and  to  attend  the  assemblages  of  the  Christians. 
Cecilia  could  not  only  go  and  pray  with  the  faithful  in  the 
churches  where  the  mysteries  of  their  creed  were  celebrated  with 
a  certain  amount  of  publicity,  during  the  period  when  Christianity 
enjoyed  a  temporary  immunity  from  persecution;  but  she  was  able 


SAINT  CECILIA. 


95 


to  frequent  tlie  crypts  of  the  martyrs,  for  tlie  puriDOse  of  assisting 
in  tliose  anniversaries  of  siicli  heroic  members  of  the  devoted  band 
as  had  met  death  in  its  cause.  The  poor,  who  guarded  the  secret 
of  Urban's  retreat,  knew  the  gentle  maiden  ;  and  often  conveyed  her 
messages,  or  conducted  her  steps  to  the  venerable  pontiff  himself. 

The  Christians  at  that  epoch  lived  with  the  idea  of  possible 
martyrdom  constantly  present  to  them  ;  it  entered,  as  a  necessary 
element,  into  all  their  visions  of  the  future.    But  this  formidable 
prospect  had  no  power  to  appal  the  soul  of  the  young  Cecilia.  She, 
on  the  contrary,  learned  to  dwell  upon  it,  as  upon  a  promised  repose 
of  peace  and  bliss.    Martyrdom  would  for  ever  unite  her  with 
Christ,  who  had  deigned  to  select  her  from  a  pagan  family  that  he 
might  reveal  himself  unto  her.    Awaiting  this  welcome  summons, 
she  lived  within  the  depths  of  her  heart  in  the  constant  company 
of  her  Divine  Master,  ceasing  not  to  commune  with  him  in  holy 
prayer  and  converse,  day  nor  night.    Enraptured  with  this  secret 
conference,  she  sought  Him  perj^etually  in  His  holy  oracle,  in  His 
volume  of  Evangels,  which  she  kept  hidden  beneath  the  folds  of 
her  robe,  resting  ever  in  her  bosom.    ["  Absconditum  semper 
Evangelium  Christi  gerebat  in  pectore."    Acta  S.  Gmilim?^  In 
the  ardour  of  her  self-dedication  to  her  chosen  Heavenly  Spouse, 
she  vowed  ever  to  remain  immaculate  in  virgin  faith  and  purity ; 
and  abided  in  meek  hope  the  period  when  she  should  be  called  to 
receive  her  nuptial  crown  of  immortality. 

Her  guardian  spirit  was  permitted  to  take  visible  shape : — an 
Angel  alighted  beside  her  in  the  silent  hours  of  seclusion  and  con- 
templation :  like  the  winged  messenger  sent  to  the  first  pair  in 
paradise,  "  the  glorious  shape  seem'd  another  morn  risen  on  mid- 
noon  ; "  so  bright,  so  seraphic  he  appeared : — 

"  Like  Maia's  son  he  stood, 
And  shook  his  plumes,  that  heavenly  fragrance  fill'd 
The  circuit  wide." 


9G 


SAINT  CECILIA. 


Meanwliile  Cecilia's  parents,  knowing  nothing  of  lier  vow, 
cliose  lier  an  earthly  bridegroom.  A  young  and  noble  Eoman. 
named  Valerian,  was  the  object  they  selected  as  a  fitting  husband 
for  their  beautiful  daughter.  His  rank,  his  generous  qualities,  ren- 
dered him  worthy  to  be  the  i30ssessor  of  the  treasure  they  proposed 
to  bestow  upon  him  ;  while  the  maiden's  gentle  graces  and  good- 
ness made  him  rejoice  in  the  prospect  of  calling  her  his  own. 
Valerian  had  a  brother,  Tiburtius,  to  whom  he  was  fondly  attached  ; 
and  he  trusted  that  this  new  tie  would  be  only  an  additional 
means  of  strengthening  their  fraternal  bond  of  happy  union.  So 
indeed  was  it  to  be :  though  not  in  the  way  that  the  pagan  youth 
then  imagined.  They  were  all  three  to  be  united  in  links  of  more 
than  mortal  felicity. 

The  day  for  the  celebration  of  the  marriage  was  appointed,  and 
the  two  patrician  fiimilies  prepared  with  all  due  magnificence  to 
honour  the  espousals  of  two  of  their  scions,  whose  youth,  beauty,  and 
dictinction  made  them  a  source  of  joyful  pride  to  their  kindred. 
Classical  and  "poetical  description  has  handed  down  to  us  the  cos- 
tume and  environments  that  marked  the  nuptial  ceremony  in  those 
early  times.  GatuUus's  glowing  marriage-song  of  "  Julia  and  Man- 
lius,"  among  others,  affords  indication  of  the  picturesque  accompani- 
ments that  attended  ancient  spousal  rites : — 

"  Claustra  pandite,  januje  : 
Virgo  adest.    Viden'  ut  faces 
Splendidas  quatiunt  comas  ?  " 

"  But  the  doors  set  open  wide, 
For  she  comes, — the  bride,  the  bride  ! 
Don't  you  see  the  torches  there, 
How  they  shake  their  shining  hair  ?  " 

Leigh  Hunfs  translation. 

And  there  is  also  allusion  to  the  bridal  music :  the  soucs  to 
Hymen,  the  glad  epithalamia,  which  crowned  the  feast  with  rich 


SAINT  CECILIA. 


liannonious  triumpli ;  and  whicli  form  so  momentous  a  feature  in 
Cecilia's  marriage-day : — 

"  Hymen,  Hymenjeus  0  ; 
Slip  thy  snowy  feet  in  socks  .  \ 

Yellow-tinged,  and  girt  thy  locks 
With  sweet-flowered  marjoram, 
And  in  saffron  veil,  0  come ; 

Meet  the  day  with  dancing  pleasure, 
Singing  out  a  nuptial  measure. 
And  with  fine  hand  at  the  air 
Shake  the  pine-torch  with  a  flare." 

Ibid. 

We  are  tlius  enabled  from  classic  authority,  to  image  to  our- 
selves liow  tlie  fair  bride,  Cecilia,  was  led  fortli,  attired  in  a  tunic 
of  soft  wMte  wool,  simply  girdled  with  a  slender  cincture,  also 
wMte  and  woollen;  her  long  and  glossy  hair  braided  into  six 
tresses,  after  the  manner  of  the  vestal  virgins, — for  so  the  Eoman 
usage  permitted  to  brides  on  the  day  they  were  wedded,  as  a  fare- 
well token  of  their  maiden  state ;  a  veil  of  flame-coloured  hue 
floating  around  her  face  and  figure,  screening  her  from  public  gaze, 
while  reserving  her  modest  beauty  to  view  of  the  attendant  hover- 
ing angel. 

Like  Edmund  Spenser's  bride,  in  his  own  perfect  Epithala- 

"  Behold,  whiles  she  before  the  altar  stands. 
Hearing  the  holy  priest  that  to  her  speaks, 
And  hlesses  her  with  his  two  happy  hands, 
How  the  red  roses  flush  up  in  her  cheeks  ! 
And  the  pure  snow  with  goodly  vermil  stain, 
Like  crimsin  died  in  grain. 
That  even  the  angels,  which  continually 
About  the  sacred  altar  do  remain, 
Forget  their  service,  and  about  her  fly, 
Oft  peeping  in  her  faee,  that  seems  more  fair 
The  more  they  on  it  stare  ; 

13 


98  SAINTCECILIA.. 

But  her  sad*  eyes,  still  fastenct  on  the  ground, 
Are  governed  with  goodly  modesty, 
That  suifers  not  one  look  to  glaunce  awry, 
Which  may  let  in  a  little  thought  unsound." 

So  stood  Cecilia,  her  eyes  bent  groundward,  submitting  to 
lend  external  participation  in  tlie  pagan  rites  going  on  around  lier ; 
but  inwardly  maintaining  lier  isolation  of  purity  and  devout  wor- 
ship. In  her  bodily  presence,  but  spiritual  absence  of  abstracted 
meditation,  the  heathen  observances  proceeded ;  the  offering  of  wine 
and  milk  took  jDlace,  the  ceremonial  of  breaking  the  cake,  and  the 
final  placing  of  her  hand  within  that  of  Valerian,  all  went  on  as 
if  she  took  part  in  the  celebration  of  which  she  was  but  passive 
spectatress.  ^ 

At  close  of  day,  according  to  antique  habitude,  the  newly 
wedded  wife  was  conducted  to  the  dwelling  of  her  husband.  Va- 
lerian's house  was  situated  in  the  transtiberine  quarter  of  Eome ; 
and  it  was  here  that^  in  after  times,  the  basilica,  or  church  dedi- 
cated to  Saint  Cecilia,  was  erected,  to  mark  the  spot  of  her  tri- 
umph. The  nuptial  torches  lighted  the  way  of  the  marriage  pro- 
cession, as  they  approached  the  spousal  dwelling.  On  the  thresh- 
old, beneath  the  portico  adorned  with  white  draperies,  amid 
which  hung  garlands  of  fiowers  and  green  foliage.  Valerian  stood 
awaiting  Cecilia.  There  are  two  allusions  in  Shakespeare's  Corio- 
lanus  that  illustrate  this  ancient  Eoman  bridal  observance.  Au- 
fidius  says  : — "  More  dances  my  rapt  heart,  than  when  I  first  my 
wedded  mistress  saw  bestride  my  threshold." 

And  Coriolanus  himself,  in  the  cheerfulness  of  his  conquering 
courage  and  safety,  exclaims  : — 

"  0  !  let  me  clip  you 
In  arms  as  sound,  as  when  I  woo'd;  in  heart 
As  merry,  as  when  our  nuptial  day  was  done, 
And  tapers  burn'd  to  hedward." — 

*  Serious — steadfast. 


SAINT  CECILIA. 


99 


Cecilia  crossed  tlie  tliresliold :  tliey  brougM  lier  fair  water, 
emblem  of  purity ;  tliey  gave  lier  a  key,  symbol  of  tlie  boiiseliold 
duties  hencefortli  to  be  committed  to  lier  cliarge  ;  tliey  led  her  to 
a  seat  upon  a  fleece  of  unspun  wool,  in  token  of  tlie  domestic 
labours  slie  would  have  to  perform.  Then  the  wedding  guests 
passed,  with  the  young  couple  into  the  Triclinium,  or  apartment 
where  the  marriage  supper  was  served.  During  the  repast,  an 
epithalamium  was  sung,  which  celebrated  the  union  of  Valerian 
and  Cecilia :  a  choir  of  musicians  filled  the  hall  with  their  melodi- 
ous voices  in  concord  with  resounding  instruments,  and  Avith  the 
rich  outpouring  of  the  full-toned  organ.  Amidst  this  swelling 
harmony,  Cecilia  chanted  softly  to  herself,  lifting  her  soul  to  God 
in  praise  and  adoration,  and  praying  him  to  keep  her  immaculate, — 
in  heart  and  body, — evermore.  ["  Cantantibus  organis,  Cecilia  in 
corde  suo  soli  Domiuo  decantabat,  dicens :  Fiat  cor  nieum  et  cor- 
pus meum  immaculatum  ut  non  confundar."  Acta  S.  OeciUce.']  For 
this  pious  act  of  spiritual  elevation,  shaping  itself  in  musical  heart- 
utterance,  Cecilia  has  been  ever  since  regarded  as  the  patron  Saint 
of  Music. 

The  feast  ended,  a  band  of  matrons  conducted  the  trembling 
steps  of  the  bride  to  the  door  of  the  nuptial-chamber ;  where  its 
rich  decorations — ^in  all  the  beauty  of  Koman  taste  and  luxury — 
shone  with  a  tempered  charm ;  amid  the  silence  and  darkened  light, 
affording  delicious  contrast  with  the  glare  and  tumult  of  the  wed- 
ding banquet.    The  bridegroom  followed ;  and  the  matrons  retired. 

When  Cecilia  found  herself  alone  with  Valerian,  her  young  hus- 
band, a  holy  calm  fell  upon  her  spirit ;  and  she  said  to  him,  with 
her  gentle  voice  sounding  sweeter  and  softer  than  ever,  amid  the 
quiet  of  the  night-scene  : — "  Dear  friend,  I  have  a  secret  to  confide 
to  thee  :  swear  to  me  that  thou  wilt  respect  and  preserve  it." — 
Valerian  swore  with  ardour  to  keep  her  secret,  and  that  nothing 


100  S  A  I  N  T    C  E  C  i  L  I  A. 

on  eartli  slioiild  force  liim  to  reveal  it.—"  Listen,  then,"  replied 
Cecilia ;  "  an  Angel  of  God  watches  over  me  : — aid  me  to  preserve 
my  Yow,  and  he  will  love  thee  as  he  loves  me,  and  shower  on  thee 
his  blessed  favours  of  guardianship  and  protection."  Thereupon  she 
explained  to  him  the  vow  of  virgin  purity  and  immaculacy  she  had 
taken,  and  besought  him  to  respect  it. 

The  young  man,  deeply  troubled,  answered  her  thus :— "  Ceci- 
lia, if  you  would  that  I  believe  your  word,  let  me  behold  this  An- 
gel. When  I  have  seen  him,  if  I  recognize  him  for  the  Angel  of 
God,  I  will  do  as  you  exhort  me  :  but  if  I  find  that  thou  lovest  an- 
other man,  be  sure  my  sword  shall  pierce  both  him  and  thyself." 
Upon  which,  the  maiden  answered  with  ineffable  impressiveness  : — 
"  Valerian,  if  thou  wilt  abide  by  my  counsels,  if  thou  consentest  to 
be  washed  in  the  waters  of  eternal  purification,  if  thou  wilt  be- 
lieve in  the  true  and  only  God,  who  reigns  above  in  the  heavens, 
thine  eye  may  behold  the  Angel  who  watches  over  me  to  guard, 
defend,  and  protect  me." 

"  And  who  is  he  that  shall  purify  me,  to  the  end  that  I  may 
see  thine  Angel  ?  "  asked  Valerian.  Cecilia  replied :  "  There  is  a 
venerable  old  man  who  purifies  men,  so  that  they  may  behold  the 
Angel  of  God."  "  And  where  may  I  find  this  old  man  ? "  said 
Valerian.  "  Go  forth  from  the  city  by  the  Appian  Way,"  returned 
Cecilia ;  "  proceed  until  thou  reachest  the  third  milliary  column. 
There  thou  wilt  find  some  poor  creatures  who  ask  alms  of  passers- 
by.  These  poor  people  are  objects  of  my  frequent  interest ;  and 
my  secret  is  known  to  them.  As  thou  approachest  them,  salute 
them  in  my  name,  giving  them  my  benediction,  and  say  to  them : 
'  Cecilia  sends  me  to  you,  that  you  may  conduct  me  to  the  holy  Ur- 
ban :  I  have  a  private  message  to  convey  to  him.' — When  thou 
comest  into  the  presence  of  the  sainted  old  man,  repeat  to  him 
the  words  I  have  said  unto  thee :  he  will  purify  thee,  and  robe 


♦ 


S  A  1  N  T    C  B  C  I  L  I  A.  101 

tliee  in  fresli  white  garments.  At  tliy  return,  tliou  wilt  find  me 
still  liere  awaiting  thee  ;  tliou  wilt  beliold  the  Angel,  then  become 
thy  friend  also  ;  and  thou  wilt  obtain  from  him  all  that  thou  shalt 
ask  of  him." 

With  the  first  dawn  of  day,  Valerian  set  forth  towards  the  re- 
treat of  Urban ;  and  all  fell  out  according  as  Cecilia  had  pre-de- 
scribed.  He  hastened  back,  clothed  in  the  white  baptismal  gar- 
ment of  a  new-made  Christian  ;  which  however  attracted  no  obser- 
vation in  the  streets  of  Kome,  where  cloaks  and  tunics  of  that  hue 
were  no  rarity.  He  went  straight  to  the  door  of  the  chamber 
where  he  had  left  Cecilia,  and  softly  opened  it.  On  entering,  he 
perceived  her  kneeling  in  prayer,  while  near  to  her  stood  the  An- 
gel of  the  Lord ;  his  face  radiant  with  celestial  light ;  his  wings 
with  innumerable  colours.  The  spirit  of  bliss  held  in  his  hand  two 
coronals  of  intertwined  roses  and  lilies.  One  of  these  he  placed  on 
the  head  of  Cecilia,  the  other  on  that  of  Valerian,  as  he  said,  in 
heavenly  accents,  to  the  young  cou]3le : — "  Deserve  to  keep  these 
crowns  by  the  purity  of  your  hearts,  and  the  sanctity  of  your 
bodies  :  it  is  from  the  garden  of  paradise  that  I  bring  them  to  you. 
These  flowers  will  never  fade,  their  perfume  will  be  ever  fresh  and 
gracious  ;  but  no  one  will  be  able  to  behold  them,  save  by  merit- 
ing the  privilege,  like  yourselves,  through  purity  and  implicitness 
to  Heaven's  will.  Now,  O  Valerian,  for  thine  acquiescence  with 
the  chaste  aspiration  of  Cecilia,  Christ,  the  Son  of  God,  has  sent 
me  to  thee,  to  hearken  whatever  boon  thou  desirest  that  he  should 
grant." 

The  young  man,  full  of  pious  gratitude,  fell  at  the  feet  of  the 
divine  messenger,  and  thus  ventured  to  utter  his  request : — "  No- 
thing in  life  is  more  dear  to  me  than  the  affection  of  my  brother : — 
it  would  be  cruel  to  me,  who  am  now  freed  from  peril,  were  this 
beloved  brother  to  be  left  in  danger  of  destruction.    I  beseech  of 


102 


SAINT  CECILIA 


Christ  to  deliver  my  Ibrotlier  Tiburtius,  as  lie  liatli  delivered  my 
self;  and  that  he  will  render  us  worthy  of  Him  in  the  confession 
of  his  name." — ^Then  the  Angel,  turning  to  Valerian  a  face  on  wliich 
beamed  the  supreme  joy  that  thrills  the  spirits  of  bliss  at  the  sight 
of  human  virtue,  replied: — "Because  thou  hast  asked  a  boon  of 
Christ  that  He  is  not  less  willing  to  bestow  than  thou  to  receive, — 
inasmuch  as  thy  heart  was  turned  to  Him  through  Cecilia,  His  ser- 
vant ;  so  shalt  thou  win  over  the  heart  of  thy  l^rother,  that  both 
of  you  may  attain  the  |)alm  of  martyrdom."  " 

The  Angel  re-ascended  to  the  skies,  leaving  Valerian  and 
Cecilia  to  the  plenitude  of  their  holy  gladness.  They  were  still  in 
beatific  conversation,  when  Tiburtius  came  into  the  room,  impatient 
to  see  his  well-beloved  brother  Valerian,  to  whom  Cecilia  beino- 
now  espoused,  he  saluted  her  affectionately  as  his  sister.  In  stoop- 
ing towards  her  to  give  her  his  fraternal  kiss,  he  smelt  the  delicious 
fragrance  that  emanated  from  the  maiden's  beautiful  hair,  as  of 
odorous  spring  flowers ;  yet  it  was  then  the  winter  season.  An 
expression  of  surprise  escaped  him  ;  and  the  young  couple  revealed 
to  him  the  wondrous  secret  of  the  heavenly  crowns  they  wore, 
imparting  to  him  the  means  by  which  he  might  not  only  behold, 
but  obtain  one  for  himself  With  the  eagerness  of  the  neophyte. 
Valerian  poured  forth  his  tale  to  his  brother's  ear ;  while  with  the 
confirmed  ardour  of  the  long  faithful  Christian,  Cecilia  uttered  her 
persuasive  exhortations  to  Tiburtius. 

Their  combined  arguments  produced  the  desired  fruit ;  Tibur- 
tius was  no  less  desirous  than  they  to  fulfil  his  newly-awakened 
aspiration  to  become  a  Christian ;  and  it  was  not  long  ere  the  two 
brothers  repaired  together  to  the  holy  Urban's  retreat,  to  seek 
baptism  for  the  young  Koman,  from  the  venerable  pontiff's 
hand. 

For  a  time,  peacefulness  and  calm  life  were  theirs;  but  on  the 


S  A  I  N  T    C  E  C  I  L  I  A .  103 

return  of  tlie  vernal  montlis,  war  called  tlie  Emperor  Alexander 
Severus  away  from  Eome,  and  tlie  executive  legal  power  was  vest- 
ed in  the  liands  of  deputy  rulers  during  Ms  absence.  The  man 
who  filled  the  office  of  Prsefectus  urbis, — a  civil  function,  differino- 
from  that  of  Prsefectus  prsetorio, — was  Turcius  Almachius,  noto- 
rious for  the  hatred  he  bore  the  Christians.  No  sooner,  there- 
fore, was  the  emperor  gone,  whose  leniency  to  the  sect  was  well 
known,  than  Almachius  commenced  a  series  of  persecutions  of  un- 
relenting fury.  His  ferocious  malignity  first  attacked  the  humbler 
classes  of  Romans  who  professed  the  denounced  faith ;  and  while 
he  consigned  their  living  bodies  to  torture  and  death,  he  denied  to 
their  dead  bodies  the  posthumous  consolation  of  ceremonious 
burial.  He  knew  what  importance  the  association  attached  to  this 
final  token  of  respect ;  and  how  frequently,  in  their  zeal  to  render 
the  last  offices  to  their  martyred  bret.hren,  they  themselves  incur- 
red a  similar  fate.  To  re230se  amid  that  valorous  phalanx  of 
devotees,  who  had  died  for  their  faith,  and  who  lay  beneath  the 
mould  of  the  crypts  in  graves  bearing  the  simple,  but  beautiful  in- 
scription of  two  emphatic  words, — In  ])ace^''  was  esteemed  a  priv- 
ilege well  worth  risking  life  for. 

Valerian  and  Tiburtius  were  among  the  most  active  of  those 
who  hazarded  peril  for  the  sake  of  giving  Christian  burial  to 
Christian  martyrs ;  and  it  was  thus  that  they  came  to  be  denounced 
to  Almachius  as  zealous  partisans  of  the  proscribed  sect.  He  had 
the  two  brothers  arrested,  and  brought  before  him ;  seeking  to 
intimidate  the  young  patricians  before  he  proceeded  to  extremity 
with  them. 

But  they  both,  with  the  nobleness  and  courage  of  their  re- 
spective natures,  scorned  to  avail  themselves  of  the  opportunity 
which  the  venal  magistrate  gave  them  for  evading  confession  of  their 
faith ;  they  said  enough  to  let  it  clearly  be  seen  that  they  belonged 


104 


SAINT  CECILIA. 


to  the  sect  they  favoured ;  and  Almacliiiis,  unwilling  to  pronounce 
sentence  of  deatli  against  youths  of  their  rank,  condemned  them  to 
be  scourged  with  rods.  Finding  that  this  failed  to  subdue  them, 
he  sentenced  the  brothers  to  be  conducted  to  the  fourth  milliary 
column  on  the  Appian  "Way,  near  to  which  there  was  a  temple  of 
Jupiter. 

Here,  they  were  to  be  asked  to  burn  incense  before  the  idol ; 
and  if  they  refused  to  do  so,  ,they  were  to  suffer  decapitation. 

Ere  Valerian  could  return  home  to  say  one  word  of  farewell  to 
Cecilia,  he  and  his  brother  were  led  away  to  their  ordeal ;  but  it  is 
said  that  she  found  means  to  meet  them  once  more,  on  their  way  to 
the  appointed  spot,  and  that  she  had  the  courage  to  bid  them  go 
forth,  as  soldiers  of  Christ,  and  wua  their  laurels  of  life  eternal. 
They  met  death  valorously ;  and  the  vigilance  of  some  devoted 
friends  among  the  faithful,  secured  to  Cecilia  the  mournful  privi- 
lege of  enshrouding  the  mangled  remains  of  Valerian  and  Tiburtius, 
and  depositing  them  reverentially  in  a  place  of  sepulture  on  the. 
left  side  of  the  Appian  Way. 

Not  long  was  Cecilia  in  following  the  two  young  brothers  in 
their  martyrdom.  Soon  she  was  summoned  to  appear  before 
Almachius,  in  order  that  she  might  abjure  her  suspected  faith ;  so 
far  from  this,  however,  her  recorded  colloquy  with  the  tyrannous 
prsefect,  only  served  to  proclaim  her  steadfast  adherence  to  the 
creed  she  had  adopted,  and  openly  to  avow  herself  that,  which, 
secretly,  she  had  long  been, — a  Christian. 

He, — desirous  that  her  death  should  be  as  private  as  possible, 
so  as  to  avoid  scandal  and  tumult,  as  well  as  possible  reprehension 
from  the  emperor,  should  Severus  come  to  learn  what  had  taken 
place  in  his  absence, — ^gave  orders  that  Cecilia  should  be  con- 
ducted back  to  her  own  mansion,  and  there  shut  up  in  the  bath- 
room attached  to  it,  called  by  the  Romans  the  caldarium.    A  fire 


SAINT  CECILIA. 


105 


was  to  be  kept  up  in  tlie  hypocaust,  or  stove  ;  so  that  the  vh-giu 
martyr  thus  left  without  air,  "beneath  the  heated  roof,  woukl  inhale 
death  with  the  burning  vapour,  and  obviate  the  necessity  of  a  lie- 
tor  coming  to  immolate  her. 

But  the  prsefect's  cowardly  expedient  failed.  A  miraculous 
atmosjDhere  seemed  to  environ  her  ;  and,  like  the  three  who  were 
cast  into  the  fiery  furnace,  without  a  hair  of  their  heads  being 
singed,  the  saintly  Cecilia  remained  in  the  heated  bath  scathless, 
awaiting  until  her  Heavenly  Spouse  should  call  her  to  him. 

This  prodigy  being  reported  to  Almachius,  he  beheld  his  desire 
to  avoid  shedding  the  blood  of  a  Eoman  lady  frustrated;  he 
therefore  sent  a  lictor  to  behead  her  on  the  very  spot  where  she 
had  escaped  death.  So  eagerly  did  the  virgin  martyr  welcome 
the  blow  which  was  to  dehver  her  from  earthly  bondage,  that  the 
executioner's  energy  was  paralyzed,  and  his  ill-assured  arm  could 
not  strike  with  certainty  at  a  victim  thus  submissively  ready  to 
encounter  her  fate.  Thrice  he  brandished  aloft  his  weapon,  and 
thrice  it  fell  with  ineffectual  force  on  the  neck  of  Cecilia.  An  ex- 
isting law  forbade  more  than  three  blows  dealt  by  the  headsman  ; 
if  the  third  did  not  kill,  the  sufferer  was  left  to  die.  Thus  the 
lictor  left  the  virgin,  stretched  on  the  bath-room  floor,  weltering 
in  her  blood,  mortally  wounded,  but  not  yet  expiring. 

The  doors  remaining  open  after  the  lictor's  departure,  a  crowd 
of  Christians  who  had  been  awaiting  the  consummation  of  the 
sacrifice,  made  their  way  in,  struck  with  grief  and  horror.  The 
gentle  victim  smiled  faintly  on  those  holy  poor  whom  she  had  so 
long  charitably  cared  for ;  and  even  in  this  supreme  instant  de- 
voted herself  to  their  cause  by  addressing  kindly  words  of  encour- 
agement and  exhortation  to  them  to  be  firm  in  faith :  and  when 
they  brought  the  venerable  Urban  to  her  side,  she  still  showed 
her  affection  for  them,  by  bequeathing  to  him  her  worldly  goods 
14 


106  SAINT  CECILIA. 

for  tlieir  belioof.  Thus  lay  slie ;  to  tlie  last,  exerting  herself  to 
utter  consoling  and  hopeful  words.  Her  young  and  virginal  body 
lay  prone,  tenderly  couched  on  its  right  side;  her  liml3s  laxly  ex- 
tended ;  her  arms  drooped  one  over  the  other  patiently ;  her  head 
bent  meekly  down.  Thus  she  yielded  her  last  sigh ;  and  thus, — ^in 
this  pathetic  attitude  of  martyred  maidhood,  an  Italian  artist,  Ste- 
fano  Maderno,  sculptured  a  marble  figure  of  Saint  Cecilia,  which 
adorns  her  church  at  Rome., 

Her  remains  were  deposited  by  Pope  Urban  in  the  cry|)t  which 
his  predecessor,  Calixtus,  had  prepared  for  the  sepulchre  of  the 
pontiflfe  themselves  beneath  the  Appian  Way ;  and  it  was  not  until 
six  centuries  afterwards,  that  pope  Paschal  I.  exhumed  the  virgin 
martyr's  body,  and  caused  it  to  be  transported  to  her  transtiberine 
basihca.  On  a  subsequent  occasion,  Avhen  by  Pontifical  authority, 
the  saint's  tomb  was  again  opened  and  examined,  it  is  averred 
that  the  body  was  discovered  in  the  same  attitude  and  vesture  it 
had  worn  at  the  moment  of  death ;  and  then  it  was  that  Maderno's 
recumbent  statue  Avas  sculptured  as  an  efiigy  for  her  monument. 
A  beautiful  incident  is  related  as  attending  this  second  homao-e  to 
Saint  Ceciha's  remains ;  and  it  is  in  the  true  poetical  spirit  of 
Catholic  reverence  for  legendary  association.  While  the  ceremony 
of  opening  the  virgin  martyr's  coffin  proceeded,  the  usual  burning 
of  incense  in  the  sacred  edifice  was  forborne ;  on  account,  as  it 
was  said,  of  leaving  free  to  be  perceived  the  delicious  odour  of 
roses  and  lilies  that  emanated  in  undying  freshness  from  the  shrine 
in  which  the  saint's  body  reposed. 

The  legend  of  Saint  Ceciha,  is,  throughout,  one  of  the  most 
lovely  that  the  world's  history  records.  It  associates,  in  one  form, 
some  of  the  most  noble  and  gracious  of  humanity's  adornmeuts : 
-—youth,  beauty,  purity,  harmony,  holiness ;— all  have  their  share 
in  this  exquisite  story. 


SAINT  CECILIA. 


107 


Chaucer,  witli  liis  taste  for  refiued  cliarm  in  simplicity,  took  it 
for  one  of  liis  Canterbury  Tales  ;  and  lie  has  told  it  with  his  wont- 
ed grace.  The  two  beautiful  lines  describing  Cecilia's  singing  with- 
in herself,  at  the  marriage  feast,  are  well  known : — 

"  Aud  while  that  the  organs  maden  melody, 
To  God  alone  thus  in  hire  hert  song  she." 

The  point,  describing  Tiburtius  entering  the  room  where  his  broth- 
er and  new-married  sister  have  just  had  the  interview  with  the 
Angel,  is  told  with  all  the  exquisite  freshness  of  primitive  inno- 
cence : — ■ 

"  And  with  that  word  Tiburce  his  brother  come ; 
And  whan  that  he  the  savour  undernome  * 
Which  that  the  roses  and  the  lilies  cast : — ■ 
Within  his  heart  he  gan  to  wonder  fast, 
And  said ; — '  I  wonder  this  time  of  the  year  ; 
Whennes  that  sweet  savour  cometh  so, 
Of  roses  and  lilies  that  I  smel  here  : 
For  though  I  had  hem  in  min  hondes  two, 
The  savour  might  in  me  no  deper  go  : — 
The  swetes  smel  that  in  min  herte  I  find, 
Hath  changed  me  all  in  another  kind.' — 
Valerian  said :  '  Two  corones  han  we, 
Snow-white  and  rose-red,  that  shinen  cl-^ar. 
Which  that  thine  eyen  han  no  might  to  see : 
And  as  thou  smellest  hem  thurgh  my  praiere, 
So  shalt  thou  seen  hem,  leve  brother  deai-, 
If  it  so  be  thou  wilt,  withouten  slouthe 
Beleve  aright  and  know  the  veray  trouthe.'  " 

The  early  martyrdoms  of  the  Christian  Church  afford  beauti- 
ful subjects  for  dramatic,  as  well  as  poetic  treatment ;  and  it  is  a 
wonder  that  they  have  not  more  frequently  been  made  themes  of 
tragedy.  Corneille  has  taken  for  the  hero  and  title  of  one  of  his 
stately  dramas,  "  Polyeucte,"  a  martyr  who  suffered  under  the  Em- 


*  Undemome — ^undertook — took  in  snbordinately  ; — as  it  were,  dimly  perceived  the 
scent  of  the  flowers  he  could  not  see. 


108 


SAINT  CECILIA. 


peror  Decius,  in  tlie  year  250;  exactly  two  decades  later  than 
Saint  Cecilia's  martyrdom.  Tliey  who  have  had  the  i3rivilege  of 
beholding  the  great  tragic  actress,  Eachel,  perform  the  part  of 
Pauline,  in  this  play,  will  have  witnessed  a  wonderful  emhodiment 
of  the  early  female  martyrs,  as  we  may  conceive  them  to  have  ap- 
peared, when  proclaiming  their  adherence  to  the  proscribed  faith, 
and  prepared  to  seal  belief  with  life-blood.  Her  entrance  upon 
the  stage  in  that  simple  Avhite  tunic, — like  a  victim  ready  to  suffer 
at  the  stake, — her  hair  put  back  from  her  brow,  her  bare  arms 
held  to  heaven,  her  face  lustrous  with  the  light  of  new-j)erceived 
truth, — was  a  vision,  once  seen,  never  to  be  forgotten,  so  long  as 
memory  lasts.  And  ineffably  thrilling,  too,  that  voice,  in  which 
she  uttered  those  herald  words  : — 

Mon  cpoux,  en  mourant,  m'a  laissa  ses  lumieres  ; 

Son  sang,  dont  tes  bourreaux  viennent  de  me  couvrir, 

M'a  desille  les  yeux,  et  me  les  vient  d'ouvrir. 

Je  vois,  je  sais,  je  crois,  je  suis  desabusee  ; 

De  ce  bienheureux  sang  tu  me  vois  baptisee; 

Je  suis  CHRETiENNE  enfiu, — n'cst-ce  point  assez  Jit  ?" 

[My  husband,  in  dying,  has  left  me  his  faith  ; 
His  blood  shed  upon  me  by  men  without  ruth, 
Hath  unseal'd  mine  eyes,  and  shown  me  the  truth  ; 
I  see,  I  know,  /  believe,  my  soul's  new  advis'd  ; 
With  this  thrice  blessed  blood  thou  sec'st  me  baptized  ; 
I'm  a  CHRISTIAN,  in  short, — needs  there  more  to  be  said  ?  "] 

The  tone  and  look  that  accompanied  those  two  syllables,  "  Je 
crois,"  were  incomparably  fine  — it  was  the  very  soul  of  fervent  ex- 
j^ression. 

"Yivia  Perpetua,"  another  of  the  early  Christian  martyrs, 
forms  the  subject  of  a  beautiful  dramatic  poem,  which  deserves  to 
be  widely  known.  It  is  by  Sarah  Flower  Adams,  a  lady  of  refined 
taste,  and  earnest  feeling,  who  had  a  sister  gifted  with  a  musician's 
talent ;  both  fitting  followers  of  Saint  Cecilia  iu  Art  and  in  holy 


SAINT  CECILIA. 


109 


aspiration ;  and  both,  like  lier,  now  dead.  Two  passages  from  tbe 
"  Vivia  Perpetua "  may  serve  to  show  tlie  poem's  excellence,  and 
to  aptly  illustrate  tbe  subject  under  discussion  : — 

Vivius.  What  is  a  Christian  ? 

Vivia.  Truth  above  all, — it  is  the  Christian's  word  ;      .■■  ■  ■ 

Love  over  all, — it  is  the  Christian's  soul ;       "  [     ,  ' 

Life  beyond  all, — it  is  the  Christian's  hope  : 

To  lay  down  life  for  Christ  who  liv'd 

For  Truth  and  Love,  and  died  for  Life  Immortal, —  ' 
This  is  to  be  a  Christian. — I  am  ready." 

The  second  passage  glowingly  describes  tliat  spiritual  desire 
for  highest  adoration,  which  burns  within  the  human  heart,  and 
lends  it  a  fire  of  faith  strong  enough  to  meet  the  fires  of  martyrdom 
unflinchingly : —  '  ■  ' ,  ,  '  ' 

Vivia.  "  0;  have  you  not 

A  life  within,  that  asks  another  life 

For  its  unfolding  ?    Hast  not  felt  thy  soul 

To  swell  and  press  against  this  limiting  earth  ? 

Hast  never  thirsted  for  a  perfect  Truth  ? 

Hast  never  long'd  to  meet  with  what  should  fill 

Full  to  its  large  desire  thy  sense  of  praise  ?  \, 

To  praise — praise  infinitely,  were  enough. 

To  dwell  for  ever  with  the  Great  Perfection, 

The  one  untiring,  ever-moving  Spirit 

Of  Good, — what  were  it  !  Then  to  have  reveal'd 

By  light,  the  element  wherein  he  dwells, 

His  mighty  plans,  wrought  out  of  one  great  law. 

The  law  of  Love.    No  longer  mystery  : 

Faith  turn'd  to  sight,  as  promis'd  of  the  Lord. — 

Think  what  joy,  what  loving  adoration, 

Would  burst  the  song  of  praise  from  forth  our  souls,—- 

Praise  that  had  gain'd  increas'd  intelligence. 

To  meet  the  work  of  His  intelligence, — 

When,  with  our  upturn'd  eyes,  we  reached  the  height. 

Where,  like  the  beams  of  his  own  sun  on  the  mountain, 

Eested  the  all-seeing  gaze  of  the  Creator. 

Over  the  world  he  made  ;  and  he  proclaim'd 

That— All  was  good  !  " 


110 


SAINT  CECILIA 


The  exact  dates  of  neitlier  Saint  Cecilia's  birtli  nor  martyrdom, 
are  known  ;  it  is  merely  ascertained  tliat  slie  met  lier  doom  in  tlie 
spring  of  the  year  230.  But  the  day  appointed  for  the  com- 
memoration of  Saint  Cecilia's  anniversary,  is  the  2 2d  of  November ; 
and  it  has  been  the  graceful  custom  to  celebrate  the  festival  of  the 
patron-saint  of  Music  with  a  vocal  and  instrumental  performance 
in  her  honour.  A  little  volume,  containing  an  account  of  these  mu- 
sical celebrations  of  Saint  Cecilia's  Day  has  lately  been  put  forth 
by  William  Henry  Husk ;  and  among  the  collection  of  odes  he  has 
appended,  Dryden's,  Pope's,  and  Congreve's  are  those  most  distin- 
guished in  name.  They  are  each  characteristic  of  their  several  au- 
thor's styles,  although  treating  of  the  same  theme.  The  passages 
strictly  relative  to  Saint  Cecilia  herself,  shall  be  quoted  here,  as  af- 
fording illustrative  evidence  of  this  remark.  First,  Dryden's  ;— ro- 
bust and  vigorous : — 

"  Tlius  long  ago, 
Ere  heaving  bellows  learn'd  to  blow, 
While  organs  yet  were  mute  ; 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute 

And  sounding  lyre, 
Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft  desire. 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 

Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame ; — 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 

Enlarg'd  the  narrow  bounds, 

And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 
With  nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 

Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 
Or  both  divide  the  crown  ; 

He  rais'd  a  mortal  to  the  skies  ; 
She  drew  an  angel  down." 

Then  Pope's  ;  smooth,  neat,  and  well-turned  • — 

"  Music  the  fiercest  grief  can  charm. 
And  fate's  severest  rage  disarm ; 
Music  can  soften  pain  to  ease. 
And  make  despair  and  madness  please  : 


SAINT  CECILIA. 


Ill 


Our  joys  below  it  can  improve, 

And  antedate  tlie  bliss  above. 

This  the  divine  Cecilia  found, 

And  to  her  Maker's  praise  confln'd  the  sound. 

When  the  full  organ  joins  the  tuneful  quire, 

Th'  immortal  pow'rs  incline  their  ear  :  - 
Borne  on  the  swelling  notes,  our  souls  aspire 
While  solemn  airs  improve  the  sacred  fire ; 

And  angels  lean  from  Heav'n  to  hear 
Of  Orpheus  now  no  more  let  poets  tell. 

To  bright  Cecilia  greater  pow'r  is  giv'n 
His  numbers  rais'd  a  shade  from  hell, 

Her's  lift  the  soul  to  Heav'n." 

And  lastly,  Congreve's ;  courtly,  xDolislied,— almost  as  bowingly 
gallant  as  one  of  Ms  own  comedy  fine  gentlemen.  We  seem  to  see 
Dan  Phoebus,  in  embroidered  coat  and  ruffles— like  Mirabell  or  Bell- 
mour,  at  tlie  feet  of  Millamant  or  Belinda— laying  Ms  harp  and 
his  laurels  at  the  feet  of  Saint  Cecilia,  in  the  hoop-petticoat  and 
powdered  head-dress  of  Mrs.  Bracegirdle : — 

"  Cecilia  comes,  with  holy  rapture  fill'd, 

To  ease  the  world  of  care. 
Cecilia,  more  than  all  the  Muses  skill'd,  ' 
Phoebus  himself  to  her  must  yield,  ; 
.  And  at  her  feet  lay  down 
His  golden  harp  and  laurel  crown  ; 
The  soft  enervate  lyre  is  drown'd 
In  the  deep  organ's  more  majestic  sound. 
In  peals  the  swelling  notes  ascend  the  skies  ; 
Perpetual  breath  the  swelling  notes  supplies, 

And  lasting  as  her  name 

Who  form'd  the  tuneful  frame, 
Th'  immortal  music  never  dies." 


Saint  Cecilia  forms  a  blended  impersonation  of  Christian  faith, 
divine  music  and  feminine  purity. 


HELOISE. 


Haedly  could  a  finer  exemplar  of  the  principle  of  self-abnegation 
be  pointed  out  tlian  Heloise.  Slie  formed  an  embodiment  of  that 
generous  passion  of  love  wMcli  prefers  the  honour  of  the  beloved 
object  to  its  own.  That  noble  affection  which  lives  and  has  its 
breath  in  the  welfare  of  another — the  chosen  one.  That  affection 
whose  ambition  is  exalted, — for  it  seeks  the  glory  of  another  self, 
instead  of  self-aggrandizement ;  whose  aspirations  are  all  disinter- 
ested, having  for  aim  the  advantage  of  the  beloved  one,  forgetful  of 
personal  distinction.'  'PeGulmrlj  a  womanly  sSection, — content  to 
merge  all  considerations  of  individual  fame  (even  womanhood's 
fame  itself)  in  that  of  the  man  preferred,  proud  of  his  renown, 
and  humbly  willing  to  remain  obscure,  and  even  defamed  for  his 
sake. 

Her  tragical  histoiy  may  be  gathered  from  the  celebrated 
"  Letters  "  written  by  Abelard,  and  herself,  which  fortunately  time 
has  preserved ;  thus  enabling  us  to  trace,  almost  in  autobiograph- 
ical form  (the  incidents  of  the  story  in  his,  the  inner  essence,  its 
truth  of  respective  character  in  hers),  the  private  particulars  of 
two  beings  who  played  so  conspicuous  a  part  in  the  World's  great 
Drama,  seven  centuries  since.  In  Abelard's  letter,  which  was 
addressed  to  a  friend,  who  had  suffered  severe  misfortune,  and 

15 


114 


H  E  L  0  I  S  E. 


whom  lie  wished  to  inspire  with  fortitude,  from  a  detail  of  griefs 
far  exceeding  those  he  strove  to  console,  and  indeed,  almost  unex- 
ampled in  calamity, — are  detailed  the  afflicting  circumstances  of 
his  and  Heloise's  life  up  to  that  peried ;  and  in  tlie  letters  of 
Heloise,  are  revealed  the  intimate  vestiges  of  character,  and  moral 
conformation  that  marked  each.  Her  own  character  is  brightly 
visible  in  the  warm  outpourings  of  the  woman-heart,  overflowing 
through  every  line  and  eveiy  word;  while  that  of  Abelard  is 
latently  legible  in  the  appeals  she  with  such  fervour  and  eloquence 
addresses  to  him. 

Heloise  was  one  of  those  women,  in  whom  a  strono-  intellect  is 
combined  with  equal  strength  of  feeling ;  in  whom  ardour  of  mind 
is  co-existent  with  the  most  glowing  generosity  of  soul.  From 
childhood,  she  was  distinguished  by  mental  capacity  and  affection- 
ate disposition.  From  earliest  youth  she  applied  herself  to  science 
and  philosophy  ;  and  became  mistress  of  the  Latin,  Greek,  and 
Hebrew  languages.  Very  beautiful,  she  diligently  cultivated  her 
understanding,  which  was  naturally  vigorous.  She  received  her 
first  education  in  the  convent  of  Argenteuil,  near  Paris ;  and 
during  girlhood,  pursued  her  studies  under  the  roof  of  her  uncle, 
Fulbert,  who  was  a  canon  in  the  cathedral  of  Paris,  and  almoner 
to  King  Henry  I.  of  France. 

Her  uncle,  proud  of  Heloise's  attainments, — rare  at  any  time  in 
a  woman,  but  especially  so  at  the  period  when  she  lived, — which 
had  already  won  her  a  name  in  the  world,  was  eager  to  promote 
her  tuition.  When  therefore  Abelard  appeared  in  Paris,  in  the 
full  lustre  of  his  scholastic  reputation,  and  proposed  to  enter  Ful- 
bert's  house  as  a  boarder,  giving  instruction  to  the  niece  as  an 
equivalent,  the  canon, — who  was  no  less  parsimonious  than  violent- 
tempered,  caught  at  this  proposal,  which  afforded  so  fair  an  oppor- 
tunity of  fulfilling  his  views.    Abelard's  own  words  remark  upon 


H  E  L  0  I  S  E 


115 


the  rash,  folly  of  the  canon's  behaviour ;  thus  "  confiding,"  as  it 
were,  "  a  tender  lambkin  to  the  care  of  a  famished  wolf"  The 
advantages  to  be  gained  by  the  plan  so  blinded  Fulbert  to  its 
dangers,  that  he  actually  placed  his  young  niece  under  the  sole  direc- 
tion of  her  new  preceptor ;  begging  him  to  devote  all  the  hom-s  he 
could  spare,  to  her  instruction,  and  went  so  far  as  to  empower 
Abelard  not  only  to  see  her  at  all  hours,  but^,  if  he  found  her  neg- 
ligent or  inattentive,  to  use  chastisement. 

Thus,  the  designs  of  Abelard  were  offered  every  facility  for 
success,  by  the  imprudence  of  the  uncle ;  and,  placed  in  this  con- 
stant proximity  with  his  beautiful  pupil,  he  failed  not  to  take  full 
advantage  of  his  position.  Heloise  was  but  seventeen,  when  she 
first  met  Abelard  ;  while  he  was  a  man  of  thii'ty-nine.  Hers  was 
the  very  age  at  which  a  girl  of  her  temperament  and  her  endow- 
ments, was  likely  to  become  enamoured  of  a  man  of  his  age  and 
character.  He  came  to  her  surrounded  by  all  the  influences  of  his 
learned  reputation,  his  graces  of  person  and  manner,  his  scholarly 
and  varied  accomplishments.  She  herself  makes  touching  allusion 
to  this.  It  has  an  effect,  as  if  recording  to  posterity  her  lover's 
talent,  and  appealing  to  it  in  extenuation  of  her  early  fault. 

"Among  the  qualities  that  distinguished  you,"  writes  she  to 
him  many  years  afterwards,  "  you  possessed  two  gifts  especially, 
which  must  have  won  you  the  heart  of  any  woman :  I  mean,  those 
of  poet  and  musician.  I  cannot  think  that  these  accomplishments 
were  ever  before  possessed  by  a  philosopher  in  equal  degree.  It 
was  thus,  that,  as  a  relaxation  from  your  philosophical  studies,  you 
composed,  by  way  of  pastime,  numberless  verses  and  love-songs, 
whose  poetic  thought  and  musical  grace,  found  an  echo  in  everj^ 
heart.  Your  name  flew  from  mouth  to  mouth  ;  and  your  stanzas 
remained  graven  in  the  memory  of  even  the  most  ignorant,  by  the 
sweetness  of  your  melodies.    And  ah  !  in  consequence,  how  the 


116 


H  E  L  0  I  S  E. 


hearts  of  all  tlie  women  were  drawn  towards  you !  But  as  the 
greater  number  of  your  verses  sang  our  love,  my  name  soon  be- 
came distinguislied,  and  tlien  tlie  envy  of  women  was  roused." 

The  classical  reading  of  Heloise  liad  habituated  her  to  imbibe 
her  ideas  of  right  and  wrong  from  such  precepts  as  she  found  in 
the  pages  of  the  ancients.  She  had  no  mother,  no  female  guide 
near  her  to  counsel  and  advise  ;  no  friend  at  hand  to  point  out 
where  a  girl  might  run  fearfuUest  hazard  in  forming  her  conduct 
solely  upon  the  tenets  of  such  authors  as  she  read.  Aided  by 
womanly  admonitions,  Heloise  might  have  rea23ed  wholesome  ad- 
vantage from  her  studies,  and  learned  to  gather  fuller  and  wiser 
meaning  from  them.  As  it  was,  she  may  be  imagined  to  have 
«  made  her  own  crude  and  too-large  construction  of  such  books  as 
she  studied ;  and  that  from  this — joined  with  her  own  generous 
nature — she  grew  to  be  over-reliant  and  confiding,  where  she  gave 
her  heart.  It  is  probable  that  her  girlish  enthusiasm  implicitly 
interpreted  passages  like  the  following  one  from  Plato : — "  For 
when  the  lover  and  the  beloved  have  once  arrived  at  the  same 
point,  the  province  of  each  being  distinguished ;  the  one  able  to 
assist  in  the  cultivation  of  the  mind  and  in  the  acquirement  of 
every  other  excellence ;  the  other  yet  requiring  education,  and 
seeking  the  possession  of  wisdom ;  then  alone,  by  the  union  of 
these  conditions,  and  in  no  other  case,  is  it  honourable  for  the 
beloved  to  yield  up  the  affections  to  the  lover." 

From  his  character  of  professor  of  divinity,  numbering  among 
his  scholars  those  who  subsequently  j^roved  some  of  the  most  emi- 
nent men  of  the  time — (a  joope,  nineteen  cardinals,  more  than 
fifty  archbishops  and  bishops,  among  ecclesiastics  ;  and  the  almost 
incredible  number  of  five  thousand  disciples  in  all,  are  asserted  to 
have  owed  their  education  to  Abelard's  school  of  instruction) — 
from  his  high  reputation — from  being  one  of  the  most  able  dialec- 


H  E  L  0  I  S  E . 


117 


ticians  and  keen  disputants  tlien  living— from  his  attractions  of 
person  and  manner,  tlien  in  tlie  prime  of  mature  manhood— from 
his  more  refined  and  tasteful  acquirements  combined  with  knowl- 
edcre  — Abelard  could  scarcely  fail  of  becoming  master  of  the  whole 
heart  and  mind  of  a  girl  whose  previous  pursuits  had  moulded 
her  to  a  loving  reverence  for  intellectual  supremacy.    Her  readmg 
had  made  the  ancient  philosophers  her  book-idols;  and  now  she  be- 
held embodied  before  her  their  living  representative  in  this  gifted 
man,  possessed  not  only  of  their  powers,  but  of  a  handsome  person,  a 
most  winning  tongue,  and  an  all-absorbing  passion  for  herself.  Well 
skilled  in  the  arts  of  casuistry,  practised  in  the  subtlest  and  smooth- 
est forms  of  sophistry,  he  was  at  no  loss  to  beguile  the  judgment, 
while  he  fascinated  the  affections  of  his  willing  conquest.  From 
being  pupil,  Heloise  became  mistress  to  the  man  she  loved  better 
than  herself;  and,  from  that  time,  made  his  will— not  her  own— 
the  rule  of  her  life.    The  uncle— obtuse  as  he  was  rash— was  the 
last  to  discover  their  intercourse ;  and  when  he  did— rash  as  he 
was  obtuse— burst  into  fury  against  this  shame  to  his  family,  and 
reproached  Heloise  with  makmg  herself  and  him  the  scandalous 
talk  of  Paris.    The  lovers  were  separated  for  a  time ;  but  Abelard 
took  advantage  of  a  temporary  absence  of  Fulbert's,  to  convey 
Heloise  away,  disguised  as  a  man,  into  Brittany,  where  she  re- 
mamed  with  a  sister  of  Abelard's  called  Denise,  and  there  gave 
birth  to  a  son,  whom  she  named  Astrolabus. 

Fulbert's  rage  knew  no  bounds  at  this  public  proof  of  domestic 
infamy;  and  Abelard,  to  appease  his  wrath,  went  to  him,  and 
offered  to  repair  the  injury  his  family  honor  had  sustained  by 
marrying  Heloise,  on  condition  that  the  union  should  be  kept  a 
secret.  Kepenting  the  act  of  treachery  he  had  committed,  Abe- 
lard was  willing  to  make  the  only  reparation  in  his  power  ;  but 
knowing  that  it  involved  the  ruin  of  all  his  hopes  of  ecclesiastical 


118 


H  E  L  0  I  S  E 


preferment,  and  even— constituted  as  letters  tlien  were— the  de- 
struction of  all  Lis  literary  ambition  and  prospects  of  learned  fame, 
lie  affixed  this  condition  to  his  proffer  of  redress.  Fulbert  readily 
promised  compliance,  only  too  rejoiced  to  secure  a  proposal  beyond 
his  utmost  expectation ;  for  such  a  marriage,  besides  salving  his 
wounded  reputation,  would  secure  his  niece's  union  with  a  man 
whose  scholastic  renov/n  rendered  his  alliance  a  high  distinction. 

But  the  person  most  nearly  interested  in  the  project,  viewed  it 
with  far  less  selfish  eyes.  Abelard,  on  arriving  in  Brittany  to  commu- 
nicate Avhat  her  uncle  and  himself  had  agreed  upon  between  them, 
found  Heloise  v/holly  averse  from  the  proposed  marriage.  Ever 
more  solicitous  for  him  than  for  herself,  she  foresaw,  in  this  step, 
his  ruin,  and  she  chose  rather  to  abide  by  her  own.  He  had 
abeady  taken  degrees  in  clerical  office  ;  and  the  clergy  of  his  per- 
suasion are  prohibited  from  vredlock.  She  knew,  that  were  he  to 
marry,  all  hope  of  advancement  as  an  ecclesiastic  was  precluded ; 
and  she  was  aware  that  unless  ordained,  his  prospects  of  attaining 
fame  as  a  man  of  letters  were  at  once  quenched.  Literary  eminence 
was  at  that  time  almost  wholly  confined  to  the  priesthood ;  and, 
were  Abelard  to  put  it  out  of  his  power  to  become  a  dignitary  of  the 
church,  he  could  hardly  dream  of  acquiring  that  renown  which  his 
talents  were  sure  to  command,  had  they  free  scope  for  their  exercise. 

Heloise  placed  all  these  inducements  before  her  lover ;  urced 
all  the  arguments  which  her  erudition  could  so  well  supply  from 
philosophical  and  theological  authority,  that  might  prevail  with 
him  to  give  up  the  thought  of  taking  a  wife;— she  cited  the 
Apostle's  words,  the  Saint's  exhortations  against  assuming  the  yoke 
of  marriage ;  represented  the  loss  which  the  church  would  sustain, 
and  the  detriment  philosophy  would  suffer,  if  so  shining  a  light  as 
Abelard's  genius  were  withdrawn  from  them ;  and,  in  short,  left 
no  plea  unadvanced  which  could  support  his  cause  against  her  owji. 


H  E  L  0  I  S  E,  119 

She  even  went  so  far  as  to  assure  liim  that  slie  would  prefer  owing 
all  to  Ms  love  and  voluntary  faith,  unshackled  by  any  tie.  With 
a  woman's  romance  of  generosity — in  striving  to  persuade  him 
into  what  she  thought  would  be  for  his  best  advantage — ^she  made 
it  seem  her  own  wish  that  they  should  remain  united  by  affection 
only,  without  the  ties  of  marriage.       /  ,       ^      .  ...  .  .  . 

This  piece  of  prodigal  self-abnegation  has  been  curiously  mis- 
conceived. In  judging  so  exceptional  a  character  as  that  of  He- 
loise,  it  is  impossible  to  gauge  it  by  ordinary  rules ;  but  conven- 
tional minds  will  pronounce  conventionally,  however  singularly 
above  their  own  the  mind  they  contemplate.  With  tears  and 
prayers  she  sought  to  dissuade  Abelard  from  making  the  sacrifice 
he  meditated  ;  but  finding  that  he  was  bent  upon  its  fulfilment,  she 
yielded  to  his  will — as  she  did  from  first  to  last  in  all  things — 
and  accompanied  him  back  to  Paris,  that  the  marriage  might  be 
privately  performed.  >  -  ■ 

Here,  a  few  days  after  their  return,  having  passed  the  whole 
night  in  a  secluded  church,  praying  with  holy  vigil  and  pious  ob- 
servance, Abelard  and  Heloise  went  through  the  nuptial  ceremony 
in  presence  of  her  uncle  and  a  few  trusted  friends;  quitting  each 
other  immediately  it  had  taken  place,  living  separately  in  great  re- 
tirement, and  seeing  each  other  but  rarely,  and  with  every  pre- 
caution, in  order  to  keep  their  marriage  concealed. 

But  Fulbert,  forgetful  of  all  his  promises,  and  thoughtful  only 
of  the  affront  his  family  honor  had  received,  lost  no  time  in  spread- 
ing the  fact  of  the  marriage,  as  publicly  as  possible,  to  eftace  the 
former  scandal.  Heloise,  on  the  contrary,  solicitous  only  for  Abe- 
lard's  interest,  and  convinced  that  his  being  known  as  a  married 
man  would  annihilate  his  advancement,  persisted  in  denying  the 
circumstance.  Her  uncle,  furious  at  her  steadfast  adherence  to  her 
views  of  what  was  right ;  enraged  that  she  should  be  more  careful 


120 


H  E  L  0  I  S  E  . 


of  anotlier's  reputation  than  her  own,  and  jealous  of  her  deference 
to  any  authority  but  his — ^for  he  suspected  Abelard  of  actuating 
her  conduct — vowed  to  make  his  niece  rej^ent  her  pertinacity ;  and 
as  she  resided  in  the  same  house  with  him,  he  had  no  difficulty  in 
carrying  his  threat  into  effect.  Abelard,  coming  to  the  knowledge 
of  Fulbert's  harshness  towards  his  niece,  rescued  her  from  this 
treatment  by  taking  her  away  from  the  canon's  house,  and  placing 
her  in  the  convent  of  Argenteuil,  where  she  had  been  brought  up. 
This  step  only  the  more  roused  Fulbert's  wrath,  who  saw  in  it,  as 
he  thouo-ht,  the  desire  of  a  villain  to  rid  himself  of  a  woman's 
claims  to  be  acknowledged  as  his  wife,  by  inducing  her  to  become 
a  nun.  Blindly  rash  and  violent  as  ever — goaded  into  ferocity 
now — he  planned  a  vengeance  of  pre-eminent  cruelty  and  wicked- 
ness. He  found  means  to  execute  his  barbarous  scheme,  by  brib- 
ino;  Abelard's  servant  to  admit  some  hired  ruffians  into  his  master's 
chamber  at  midnia-ht,  who  there  committed  a  foul  deed  which  left 
the  unha|)py  husband  no  other  resource  than  to  retire  into  a 
monastery,  and  grieve  out  the  remainder  of  his  life  in  seclusion 
and  celibacy.  Heloise,  not  only  sharing,  but  anticipating  his  im- 
molation, took  the  veil  at  Argenteuil ;  and  then  Abelard  became 
a  monk  in  the  Abbey  of  St.  Denis.  In  their  cloistered  life,  as  in 
their  worldly  sojourn,  the  natures  of  the  two  were  conspicuously 
marked  by  difference  of  individual  character.  Heloise  shines  nobly 
the  superior,  in  generosity,  unselfish  conduct,  heroic  devotion,  firm 
faith,  and  constancy  of  heart.  While  Abelard — restless  and 
miserable— fretted  against  the  horrors  of  his  fate,  passing  a  fever- 
ish existence  of  alternate  squabbles  with  his  monks,  burning  regrets 
for  his  lost  haj)piness,  vain  attempts  to  gain  the  power  and  honor 
which  his  talent  entitled  him  to  obtain  ;  Heloise  set  herself  bravely 
and  in  earnest  to  the  task  of  subduing  her  emotions,  disciplining 
her  soul  to  resignation,  and  endeavouring  not  only  to  preach  peac;' 


H  E  L  0  I  S  E 


121 


and  virtue  but  to  practise  tliem.  At  St.  Deuis,  and  afterwards  at 
St.  Gildas,  Abelard  rebuked  tlie  disorders  of  tlie  respective  com- 
munities ;  but  Witt  so  little  effect,  that  in  tlie  former  place,  the 
monks  conspired  to  accuse  liim  of  kigli  treason  and  heresy,  and 
compassed  the  condemnation  of  one  of  his  theological  works,  which 
was  publicly  burned  at  Soissons ;  while,  in  the  latter  place,  the 
brotherhood  resented  his  interference  so  virulently,  as  to  seek  his 
destruction  by  poison.  Finding  that  his  suspicions  were  aroused 
sufficiently  to  make  him  examine  ordinary  food,  they  sacrilegiously 
infused  poison  into  the  consecrated  wine  at  the  very  altar :  and  on 
another  occasion,  one  of  his  attendants  chancing  to  eat  of  what  had 
been  ];irepared  for  his  meal,  died  on  the  spot. 

Heloise — who  had  also  had  her  difficulties  to  contend  with  in 
the  shape  of  conventual  disorderliness  and  refractory  members 
among  the  sisterhood,  after  bearing  the  ignominy  of  being  expelled 
in  company  with' them  from  the  convent  of  Argenteuil,  although 
her  own  conduct  was  blameless — found  refuge  in  the  Oratory  of 
Paraclete,  and  succeeded  in  estabhshing  regularity  among  the  nuns, 
whose  abbess  she  became.  This  Oratory  of  Paraclete  had  been 
built  by  Abelard  ;  and  by  him  was  she  installed  there.  After 
eleven  years  of  separation,  they  met  on  the  occasion  of  the  conse- 
cration of  the  community.  The  husband  and  wife — the  married 
lovers,  fate-divorced  for  life — met  after  eleven  years  of  mutual  un- 
extinguished passion,  and  unquenched  regret.  But  their  respec- 
tive relations  were  now  so  changed  as  to  subdue  all  token  of  what 
passed  within  the  sanctuary  of  these  closed  hearts.  God  alone  can 
know  the  emotions  that  surged  beneath  the  outward  calm  of  the 
Monk's  frock  and  cowl,  the  Abbess's  veil  and  habit.  He  was  the 
superior  and  pastor ;  she  the  holy  recluse.  Abelard's  own  words 
record  the  exemplary  conduct  of  Heloise  in  her  appointed  station 
here.    He  says :— "  The  Abbot  of  St.  Denis  reclaimed  as  an  ap- 

16 


122 


H  E  L  0  I  S  E . 


purtenance  formerly  subjected  to  the  jurisdiction  of  Ms  monastery 
the  convent  of  Argenteuil,  where  my  Helbise — for  some  time  past 
my  sister  in  Christ  Jesus  rather  than  my  wife — had  taken  the 
veil.    Hardly  was  she  appointed  Abbess  there,  when  he  violently 
expelled  the  community  of  nuns  over  which  she  presided.  Be- 
holding them  thus  driven  out  to  exile  and  dispersion,  I  conceived 
that  the  Lord  presented  me  an  occasion  of  establishing  m}'-  Ora- 
tory.   I  repaired  thither,  and  invited  Heloise  and  such  of  her  com- 
munity of  nuns  as  remained  attached  to  her  person  to  come  and 
take  jDossession.    On  their  arrival,  I  made  them  a  donation  of  the 
entire  Oratory  and  its  dependencies,  and  after  this  donation,  by  the 
consent  and  intervention  of  the  Bishop  of  the  diocese,  Pope  Inno- 
cent II.  confirmed  to  them  by  privilege  its  ]30ssession  in  perpe- 
tuity, to  them  and  those  who  should  follow  them.    They  lived  here 
some  time,  poor,  and  only  too  desolate.    But  a  ray  of  Divine  mercy, 
which  they  so  devoutly  implored,  did  not  fail  to  reach  them. 
The  Lord,  the  true  Paraclete  (the  Consoler),  touched  with  pity  the 
hearts  of  the  surrounding  j^opulation,  and  inspired  kindness  to- 
wards them.    One  single  year  multiplied  around  them  the  pro- 
ducts of  the  earth  more,  I  veritably  think  (God  only  knows),  than 
a  hundred  years  would  have  done  for  me,  had  I  remained  there  in 
their  place.    For  inasmuch  as  the  female  sex  is  feebler  than  ours, 
so  their  distress  is  more  moving,  and  affects  more  readily  the  hearts 
of  their  fellow-creatures ;  and  as  in  the  eyes  of  mankind,  so  like- 
wise to  God,  is  their  virtue  more  acceptable.     Thus,  the  Lord,  in 
his  goodness  towards  our  dear  sister,  who  directed  her  companions, 
permitted  her  to  find  favour  in  the  eyes  of  every  one.    The  Bishops 
cherished  her  like  a  daughter,  the  clergy  like  a  sister,  the  laity  like 
a  mother  ;  and  all  equally  admired  her  fervent  piety,  her  wisdom, 
and  her  incomparable  gentleness  and  patience  in  all  things.  She 
was  seldom  seen,  keeping  retired  within  her  cell,  that  she  might 


H  E  L  0  T  S  E. 


123 


devote  lierself  tlie  more  exclusively  to  her  lioly  meditations  and 
prayers:  but  this  only  made  tliose  around  lier  the  more  eagerly 
solicitous  to  obtain  her  presence,  and  the  pious  instruction  derived 
from  her  conversation." 

Abelard,  a  prey  to  disappointment,  irritable  from  misfortune, 
had  not  the  temper  successfully  to  controul  those  under  his  gov- 
ernment, nor  to  subdue  those  who  were  his  enemies.  These  latter 
pursued  their  accusations  of  heresy ;  and  he  resolved  to  defend 
himself  from  the  charge  before  the  council.  He  was  again  con- 
demned ;  and  he  then  determined  to  aj)peal  to  the  Pope.  Jour- 
neying for  this  purpose,  he  halted  at  Cluni,  where  he  was  hospita- 
bly received  by  Peter  the  Venerable,  abbot  there.  The  good  ec- 
clesiastic soothed  his  griefs,  and  strove  to  appease  his  foes.  He 
persuaded  Abelard  to  cease  from  contention,  to  retire  from  con- 
troversy, to  withdraw  from  the  vexations  and  strifes  of  existence, 
and  to  stay  and  end  his  days  with  him  at  Cluni.  Abiding  here  in 
the  strictest  retirement,  practising  the  austerities  of  the  order  with 
the  utmost  rigour,  exciting  admiration  by_  his  penitence  and  mai'k- 
ed  humility,  he  died  two  years  after,  in  1142. 

After  the  death  of  Abelard,  Heloise  obtained  permission  from 
Peter  the  Venerable,  to  have  the  remains  of  her  husband  conveyed 
to  Paraclete,  where  they  were  accordingly  interred.  She.  survived 
him;  but  held  thenceforth  no  communication  with  the  world.  She 
ceased  to  correspond  with  her  friends ;  and  wrote  them  no  more 
letters.  She  spoke  no  word  thereafter,  save  in  prayer  or  in  instruc- 
tion. She  never  again  pronounced  the  name  of  Abelard  ;  and  al- 
lowed her  heart  to  revert  to  the  past  only  when  communing  with 
God.  She  dedicated  herself  with  fervour  to  all  the  observances  of 
her  order,  fulfilling  its  several  penances,  and  undergoing  its  most 
rigid  discipline.  She  revised  and  confirmed  those  ordinations  for 
the  ruling  of  her  convent,  and  for  the  conduct  of  her  nuns,  which 


124 


H  E  L  0  I  S  E . 


she  had  laid  down  with  so  much  care  aud  judgment;  and  the  sub- 
stance of  these  ordinations  proclaims  her  own  admirable  nature, 
aud  noble-hearted  courage.  Never  did  woman,  betrayed  into  a 
single  weakness  in  early  youth,  expiate  it  subsequently  by  strength 
of  repentance  and  moral  valour  more  completely  than  Heloise. 
He  latter  life  was  a  fine  act  of  self-redemption.  She  spent  it,  not  in 
fruitless  murmurs,  or  doleful  lamentations ;  but  in  humble,  yet 
energetic  effort,  she  sought  to  improve  those  around  her,  while 
meekly  chastening  her  own  spirit.  She  turned  her  former  fault 
into  a  source  of  leniency  and  forbearance  towards  others,  while  sin- 
cerely repenting  it  herself ;  and  used  her  sorroAvs  as  a  means  of 
ennobling,  not  of  enervating  her  heart.  She  made  them  teach  her 
unselfishness,  not  selfishness.  She  made  them  help  her  to  sustain^ 
not  to  reproach  him,  who  although  their  source,  was  equally  with 
herself  their  sufferer.  She  made  them  enable  her  to  bury  within 
her  OAvn  soul  her  agony  of  martyred  love,  and  rather  try  to  assuage 
her  husband's  murdered  happiness  by  assumed  composure,  than 
complain  of  her  wifehood's  death.  Heloise  is  a  type  of  womanly 
fortitude  in  affection — strong  in  passion — strong  in  generous  for- 
getfulness  of  self — strong  in  endurance — strong  in  faith — strong 
in  constancy.  She  was  strong  in  intellect,  and  strong  in  good 
sense, — not  always  the  same  thing.  She  commanded  the  resj^ect 
and  esteem  of  those  who  knew  her;  and  won  their  lasting  regard. 
She  was  revered  and  loved  by  the  sisterhood  of  Paraclete,  who 
owed  their  welfare  to  her  discretion  and  prudent  governance.  She 
became  an  object  of  edification  to  the  world;  was  loaded  with 
benefits  by  princes  and  potentates ;  and  possessed  the  steady 
friendship  of  Peter  the  Venerable. 

She  died  Abbess  of  Paraclete,  the  iTth  of  May,  1164,  aged  sixty- 
three,  twenty-two  years  after  her  husband  Abelard.  It  was  ex- 
actly the  number  of  years  between  their  respective  ages ;  and  it 


H  B  L  0  I  S  E 


125 


seemed  as  if  slie  merely  survived  Lim  that  period,  to  bring  them 
together  in  all  respects.  At  her  own  request,  Heloise  was  buried 
in  the  same  tomb  with  her  husband  ;  and  here  they  were  at  length 
re-united  in  death.  The  beautiful  belief  of  the  time— more  true 
in  the  essence  of  its  imaginative  and  poetical  creed  than  much  of 
the  present  prosaic  literality — averred  that  when  Heloise's  body 
was  laid  beside  that  of  her  wedded  lover,  his  arms  opened  to  re- 
ceive her.  Many  learned  men  of  the  time  affirmed  the  circum- 
stance, and  bore  testimony  to  its  being  fact.  The  very  point  of  its 
being  stated — even  invented — ^proves  the  grand  force  of  mutual 
attachment  recognized  as  existing  between  the  two.  They  were 
known  to  be  so  united  by  love  for  each  other,  though  cruelly  sev- 
ered by  fate  during  life,  that  it  seemed  as  if  their  ultimate  joining 
by  death  must  be  marked  by  some  visible  sign  of  welcome — some 
token  of  joy  beyond  the  course  of  mortal  operation.  The  grave 
closed  their  griefs,  and  crowned  their  wish,  by  restoring  them  once 
more  and  for  ever  to  each  other's  arms,  together  to  enjoy  eternity 
of  peace  and  love. 

The  tastefully  designed  Gothic  tomb  which  received  the  re- 
remains  of  Abelard  and  Heloise,  was  constructed  from  the  clois- 
tral ruins  of  Paraclete,  and  brought  to  Paris  at  the  beginning  of 
the  present  century;  subsequently  it  was  placed  (in  181Y)  in  the 
cemetery  of  Pere-la-chaise,  where  it  still  stands — a  shrine  of  interest 
to  visitors  from  all  parts  of  the  globe. 

It  has  been  well  said  of  Heloise  by  one  of  her  biographers, — 
"She  is  one  of  the  personages  of  the  twelfth  century  whom  we 
know  most,  but  not  best."  She  stands  forth  generally  as  an  object 
ofp%,  rather  than  of  admiration;  she  is  remembered  in  her 
errors  and  her  misfortunes,  rather  than  in  her  expiation  and  her 
courage.  She  is  celebrated  for  her  learning,  instead  of  for  her 
strength  of  understanding.    She  has  come  down  to  us  through  the 


126  H  E  L  0  I  S  E  . 

medium  of  fiction,  instead  of  in  lier  own  fine  reality.  Poets  and 
romance-writers  have  presented  lier  to  our  fancy  invested  with  at- 
tributes for  compassion,  rather  than  for  veneration.  They  have 
disguised — nay,  disfigured  her  with  their  adornments,  instead  of 
letting  us  see  her  in  her  simple  beauty  of  plain  truth.  Her  own 
letters  reveal  her  high-minded  warmth  of  feeling ;  as  her  life  ex- 
hibits her  noble  character.  Her  style  is  esteemed  a  model  of 
elegant  latinity  for  the  age  in  which  she  lived ;— it  is  animated, 
energetic ;  and  where  her  heart,  speaks  the  language  is  fervent, 
emphatic  and  natural. 

Of  the  language,  of  the  mere  diction  and  construction  of  the 
,  Latin  in  which  these  letters  are  written,  scholarly  men  are,  of 
course,  the  most  competent  judges ;  but  it  is,  perhaps,  only  a 
woman,  who  can  truly  discern  the  intrinsic  spirit — what  Shake- 
speare so  finely  calls  "  the  inly  touch  of  love" — of  these  letters. 
It  almost  requires  a  woman's  heart  to  penetrate  the  core  of  woman- 
hood resident  in  these  letters  of  Heloise.    They  are  so  instinct 
with  that  involuntary  shrinking  and  veiling  of  the  secret  depths 
of  passionate  feeling — even  when  most  impulsively  uttering  its 
irrepressible  emotions — which  characterize  a  woman's  writina-,  that 
scarcely  any  man  can  correctly  read  its  more  delicate  shades  of 
meaning.    That  still  farther  reserve  of  tenderness  which  always 
lies  beneath  the  most  unreserved  expressions  of  tenderness  in  a 
woman,  teaching  her  to  adopt  a  mode  of  utterance  that  conveys 
but  imperfect  representatior  of  her  heart's  workings,  demands 
feminine  insight  to  perceive  its  full  extent.    No  man  but  one 'ever 
deciphered  the  soul  of  womanhood  in  its  entirety,  in  its  hidden 
involutions,  as  in  its  outward  demonstrations ;  and  that  one  was 
William  Shakespeare.    In  the  letters  of  Heloise  are  to  be  descried 
this  intuitive  reticence  of  the  womanly  nature,  conjoined  with  the 
singularly  bold  outspeaking  of  her  time.    It  is  this  plain  out- 


H  E  L  0  I  S  E 


127 


speaking,  this  straightforward  usage  of  words  and  terms,  which 
that  age  sanctioned,  and  which  the  custom  of  writing  in  Latin  aided 
in  producing,  which  has  greatly  served  to  blind  those  who  have 
hitherto  judged  Heloise  by  these  letters,  to  the  internal  evidence 
they  afford  of  her  character.  The  plain  terms  she  uses,  convey  to 
modern  ideas,  an  impression  of  grossness ;  whereas,  they  were  no 
more  tlian  what  those,  well  versed  in  philosojohical  discussion  and 
doctrinal  disputation,  constantly  employed.  Besides  this  circum- 
stance, the  involuntary  subterfuge  of  womanhood  above  alluded  to, 
■ — and  which  is  not  so  much  a  conscious  withholding  of  the  whole 
truth  as  an  instinctive  sensitiveness,  and  generous  desire  to  reveal 
but  that  which  shall  render  homage  to  him  who  is  beloved,  in- 
stead of  asserting  the  claim  of  her  who  loves — has  tended  to 
keep  the  inwarder  sense  of  Heloise's  eloquent  epistles  as  yet  undis- 
covered. Some  of  the  ablest  biographers  and  essayists  have  ex- 
pressed wonder  at  certain  of  her  sentiments  and  acts ;  not  perceiv- 
ing the  true  interpretation  they  bear.  For  instance,  one  of  the 
most  esteemed  among  those  who  have  written  upon  this  subject, 
confesses  himself  at  a  loss  to  account  for  the  long  silence  maintained 
by  Heloise  during  the  years  which  first  followed  her  retreat  into 
a  cloister,  and  to  conceive  the  reason  which  at  length  induced  her 
to  break  this  silence,  by  addressing  that  letter  (the  first)  to  Abe- 
lard.  The  essayist  does  not  seem  to  perceive  that  two  causes  served 
to  hold  that  noble  heart  in  mute  sufferance : — ^first,  its  entu'e  resigna- 
tion to  the  will  of  its  possessor — an  obedient  resignation  which 
formed  the  jDrinciples  of  her  whole  conduct ;  and  secondly,  the 
profound  wound  that  her  love  had  received,  which  made  passive 
endurance  her  only  resource.  He  whom  she  had  elected  controul- 
ler  of  her  destiny,  had  willed  her  life-burial,  and  she  buried  her 
griefs  with  herself  in  dumb  submission  to  his  decree.  The  reason 
of  her  breaking  silence,  was  the  sudden  coming  to  a  knowledge  of 


128 


H  E  L  0  I  S  E . 


Ms  griefs,  of  the  long  years  of  tortured  misery  lie  had  gone 
through,  the  perpetual  harass  and  disappointment  he  had  sustained, 
the  existing  perils  which  beset  him  even  while  he  wrote,  which 
forced  from  her  that  passionate  outburst  of  long-pent  feeling.  His 
letter  to  a  friend,  detailing  the  history  of  his  injuries,  of  his  sor- 
rows, and  of  his  anxieties,  chanced  to  fall  into  Heloise's  hands,  and 
she  could  no  longer  resist  the  irrepressible  impulse  to  write  to 
him.  The  intense  feeling — the  vital  freshness  of  blood-warm  emo- 
tion imbuing  every  sentence  of  that  letter,  drew  hot  tears  from 
eyes  that  perused  it  for  the  first  time — seven  ages  after  the  words 
were  penned.  They  flowed  straight  from  the  heart  of  the  woman- 
writer,  and  they  went  straight  to  the  heart  of  the  woman-reader. 
"One  touch  of  Nature  makes  the  whole  world  kin;"  and  that 
touch  of  kindred  womanhood  struck  with  sympathetic  vibration 
through  long  cycles  of  the  world's  revolution ;  creating  direct  in- 
tercommunion between  a  breather  of  the  twelfth  century,  and  one 
of  the  nineteenth  in  sistership  of  compassionate  interest. 

There  is  another  point  upon  which  the  generality  have  failed  to 
comprehend  this  great-souled  woman.  The  motive  of  Heloise's  re- 
fusal to  sanctify  her  attachment  by  marriage,  has  been  strangely 
misunderstood  and  misrej)resented :  and  instead  of  the  spirit  of 
self-sacrifice  which  evidently  dictated  it,  the  relaters  of  her  sad 
story  have  attributed  her  act  to  caprice  of  will,  and  licence  of  sen- 
timent. Pope,  in  his  celebrated  epistle,  "  Eloisa  to  Abelard,"  con- 
firms this  misconstruction  of  her  motive,  in  those  meretricious 
lines  ; — 

"  How  oft,  when  press'd  to  marriage,  have  I  said, 
Curse  on  all  laws  but  tliose  which  love  has  made. 
Love,  free  as  air,  at  sight  of  human  ties, 
Spreads  his  light  wings,  and  in  a  moment  flies. — 
Let  wealth,  let  honour,  wait  the  wedded  dame, 
August  her  deed,  and  sacred  be  her  fame ; 
Before  true  passion  all  those  views  remove ; 


H  E  L  0  I  S  E . 


129 


Fame,  wealth,  and  honour  !    What  are  you  to  Love  ?  . 

The  jealous  God,  when  we  profane  his  fires,  .  •  ■ 

Those  restless  passions  in  revenge  inspires. 

And  bids  them  make  mistaken  mortals  groan,  • 

Who  seek  in  love  for  aught  hut  love  alone. 

Should  at  my  feet  the  world's  great  master  fall. 

Himself,  his  throne,  his  world,  I'd  scorn  'em  all ;  ,  . 

Nor  Ctesar's  empress  would  I  deign  to  prove  ; — 

No,  make  me  mistress  to  the  man  I  love  ; 

If  there  he  yet  another  name  more  free, 

JMore  fond  than  mistress,  make  me  that  to  thee." 

Not  by  tlie  wild  irregular  impulse,  liere  conveyed,  was  slie  ac- 
tuated, hut  by  the  purely  generous  desire  to  promote  tlie  fame  and 
honour  of  her  lover  at  the  expense  of  her  own ;  for  not  only  did 
she  object  to  marry  him,  but  she  denied  her  marriage  after  it  had 
taken  place,  because  she  believed  it  would  be  an  impediment  to 
Abelard's  advancement.  So  far  from  being  a  woman  subject  to 
weakness,  and  swayed  by  inclination,  she  possessed  remarkable 
power  over  her  feelings.  /■ 

She  was  a  woman  of  strong  passions,  with  wonderful  command 
over  them ;  their  very  strength  proving  the  force  of  mind  she 
could  exercise  when  called  upon  to  subjugate  them.  The  ascen- 
dancy which  Abelard  possessed  over  her  young  heart  and  imagina- 
tion, and  the  generous  preference  she  ever  gave  his  wishes  and  his 
interests  to  her  own,  existed  unchanged  through  her  whole  life. 
The  same  prodigality  of  affection  which  occasioned  her  to  sacrifice 
maiden  fame  to  his  persuasions,  and  caused  her  to  relinquish  the 
privilege  of  being  acknowledged  his  wife,  made  her  willingly  ac- 
cede to  his  desire  that  she  should  quit  the  world,  and  immure  her- 
self in  a  cloister,  when  he  found  himself  compelled  to  retire  into  a 
monastery.  The  prompt  obedience  she  showed  in  this  instance, 
contrasts  nobly  with  the  unworthy  doubt  of  her  which  this  con- 
duct betrayed.  His  selfish  exaction  was  best  rebuked  and  shamed 
17 


130 


H  E  L  0  1  S  E. 


by  her  immediate  yielding.    The  injurious  mistrust  implied  in  his 
wishing  her  profession  as  a  nun  to  precede  his  taking  the  vows  of 
a  monk,  was  none  the  less  felt  by  her  because  she  at  once  deferred 
to  its  dictate ;  but  with  her  native  warmth  of  character,  she  em- 
braced this  as  an  occasion  of  yet  another  act  of  self-devotion  to 
him  she  loved.    Moreover,  knowing  that  to  her  the  world  was 
dead,  she  was  content,  still  living,  to  become  as  one  dead  thence- 
forth.   The  errors  of  Heloise's  passion  are  almost  merged  in  its 
excess;  and  well-nigh  forgiven  in  its  constancy.     The  fortitude, 
the  heroic  firmness  with  which  she  accepted  the  lot  assigned  to 
her,  and  the  subsequent  courage  and  calm  with  which  she  sought 
to  render  it  a  means  of  expiation  in  sustained  performance  of  duty, 
amount  to  the  sublime  of  human  endeavour.    Distorted  by  the 
medium  through  which  his  grosser  perceptions  viewed  them,  it 
was  from  the  two  first  of  Heloise's  original  letters  that  Pope  took 
the  ground-work  of  his  "Epistle  "  above-quoted.    But — if  the 
opinion  may  be  given  without  presumption — the  favour  which  the 
poet's  version  (or  rather  vulgar  travestie*)  has  met  with,  is  surely 
rather  to  be  attributed  to  the  neat  quotable  couplets  with  which 
the  poem  abounds,  than  to  any  fidelity  of  transcript  it  affords  of 
that  noble  woman^s  sentiments.    How  poorly  does  the  illicit  love- 
rant  in  which  Pope's  heroine  bemoans  her  own  departed  joys  com- 
pare with  the  generous  warmth  of  feeling  and  concentrated  force 
of  expression  with  which  Heloise  declares  her  acute  sense  of  their 
mutual  misery — of  Ms  anguish,  his  afliictions.    How  pronely,  yet 
how  nobly  does  she  assert  her  readiness  to  abide  by  any  decree  of 
Abelard's,  and  share  his  utmost  rigour  of  fate,  exclaiming :  "  I  who 
without  hesitation,  God  knows,  would  have  either  followed  or 

*  Siicli  an  interpretation  of  tlie  letter  of  IleloiMe,  was  to  be  looked  for  from  the  man 
who  libelled  his  whole  sisterhood  with  the  well-known  axiom  :  "  Every  woman  is  at  heart 
a  rake>" 


H  E  L  0  I  S  E. 


131 


preceded  you  into  tlie  "burning  guij^lis  of  tlie  earth,  if  sucli  had 
been  your  good  pleasure  ! "  Infinitely  pathetic  and  solemn  is 
that  "  God  knows  ! "  And  she  says,  with  an  ardour,  heightened 
by  the  very  simplicity  of  the  words,  "  For  my  soul  was  not  with 
myself,  but  with  thee."  Even  more  energetic  is  the  effect  in  the 
original  Latin  terseness; — "non  enim  mecum  animus  mens,  sed 
tecum  erat."  .       :  .  ■■ 

This  sentence,  in  fact,  contains  the  key  to  Heloise's  whole  course 
of  action.  To  please  him,  to  fulfil  what  he  wished,  she  placed  her 
very  being  at  his  disposal.  In  one  passage  she  says,  with  her  own 
strength  of  expression: — "I  struck  my  senses  themselves  with 
interdict  to  obey  your  will.  My  whole  ambition  has  been  to 
become  thus,  and  above  all  things,  your  property."  The  humility, 
the  lowhness  with  which  she  casts  herself  at  the  very  foot  of  his 
love,  so  that  it  will  but  accept  hers  in  its  perfect  devotion,  is  the 
absolute  transcript  of  womanly  affection.  With  this  clue  to 
Heloise's  self-transfer  and  self-prostration  in  her  love  for  Abelard, 
should  be  read  the  passage  in  her  first  letter,  which  has  been  so 
superficially  judged  to  afford  proof  of  her  licence  of  inclination 
with  regard  to  the  marriage-tie.  Wonder  has  been  expressed 
that  she  should  prefer  being  a  mistress  to  a  wife ;  and  it  has  been 
pronounced  extraordinary  that  she  should  rather  live  shamed  than 
righted.  It  is  far  more  wonderful  that  they  should  not  see,  that 
it  is  any  thing  but  her  own  preference  she  is  pleading  for,  and  that 
it  is  his  honour  that  occupies  her  thought  instead  of  hers.  Let  the 
words  speak  for  themselves,  in  their  simple  integrity ;  nay,  even 
in  their  old-world  plainness  and  out-spoken  freedom.  The  heart- 
felt earnestness  of  their  writer  will  excuse  them  with  those  hearts 
capable  of  feeling  that  where  the  sentiment  is  sincere,  it  signifies 
not  whether  it  be  clothed  in  the  candour  of  the  antique  fashion, 
or  veiled  in  the  more  decorous  language  of  modern  refinement. 


133 


H  E  L  0  I  S  E 


Thus  writes  Heloise  to  lier  liuslbancl : — "  Never,  God  knows,  have 
I  sought  in  you  other  thing  than  yourself.  It  is  you,  you  alone, 
not  your  possessions  that  I  loved.  I  thought  not  of  rights  of 
wedlock,  nor  of  dowry,  nor  of  my  pleasures  or  my  inclinations ;  it 
is  yours,  you  well  know,  that  I  have  studied  to  satisfy.  Although 
the  name  of  wife  be  deemed  more  holy  and  more  strong,  another 
would  always  have  been  dearest  to  my  heart— that  of  your  mis- 
tress ;  and — shall  I  say  it  without  shocking  you  ? — that  of  your 
concubine  or  your  leman ;  hoping,  that  the  more  I  made  myself 
humble  and  of  small  account,  the  more  should  I  raise  myself  in 
grace  and  favour  with  you,  and  that,  contenting  myself  with  this 
lot,  I sliould  tlie  less  fetter  your  glorious  future^ 

"  I  thank  you  for  having  not  entirely  forgotten  all  my  senti- 
ments on  this  subject  in  the  letter  addressed  to  your  friend  for  his 
consolation.  You  have  not  disdained  to  recapitulate  some  of  the 
motives  which  actuated  me  in  striving  to  dissuade  you  from  this 
fatal  union  ;  but  you  have  passed  over  in  silence  almost  all  the  rea- 
sons which  made  me  prefer  love  to  marriage  ;  liberty  to  indissolu- 
ble bonds.  I  take  God  to  witness,  that  if  Augustus,  supreme  mas- 
ter of  the  universe,  had  offered  me  the  signal  honour  of  his  alliance, 
placing  at  my  feet  the  empire  of  the  whole  world,  I  would  have 
accepted  with  more  joy  and  23i'ide  the  name  of  your  paramour 
than  the  title  of  empress.  For  neitlier  riclies  nor  power  constitute 
a  marUs  superiority :  in  tlie  one  case  it  is  the  effect  of  fortune  ;  in 
tlie  otlier^  that  of  merits  ■  It  is  this  last  clause  of  Heloise's  protest 
that  explains  her  sentiment.  They  who  discover  mere  flagitious 
propensity  and  perverted  appetite  in  Heloise's  declaration  that  slie 
would  rather  be  Abelard's  mistress  than  Csesar's  empress,  read  the 
isolated  sentence  without  its  context.  She  proclaims  her  indivi- 
dual preference  for  the  sole  man  in  the  world  who  she  feels  to  be 
worthy  of  her  love  and  possessed  of  her  love  ;  and  it  is  this  exclu 


H  E  L  0  I  S  E . 


133 


siveness  of  attacliment  wHcli  slie  believes  authorizes  lier  utmost 
prodigality  of  denionstratiou.  When  slie  asserts  that  she  would 
rather  bear  the  narae  of  mistress  than  wife,  it  is  because  she  feels 
that  the  former  lets  her  owe  all  to  Abelard's  favor,  and  the  latter 
will  shackle  his  career.  Self-abasement  is  her  pride,  if  it  serve  to 
win  his  love ;  self-transfusion  into  an  embodiment  of  his  will  is 
that  which  she  desires,  so  that  his  content  is  secured. 

The  very  words  with  which  Heloise  continues  her  argument 
for  claiming  supremacy  of  merit  to  be  the  sole  ground  on  which 
a  woman's  preference  for  a  man  should  be  based,  proves  the  purity 
of  her  love-creed,  and  evidences  that  she  holds  individuality  of  af- 
fection to  be  that  which  hallows  its  unreserved  bestowal.  She 
goes  on  to  say : — "  The  woman  who  espouses  more  willingly  a  rich 
man  than  a  poor  man,  and  who  seeks  in  a  husband  his  rank  rather 
than  himself,  let  this  woman  be  sure  she  is  for  sale.  Assuredly 
she  who  is  biased  by  such  calculation  to  engage  in  matrimony,  may 
be  entitled  to  the  market-price,  but  not  to  any  tenderness  of  grat- 
itude ;  for  it  is  very  certain  that  she  regards  fortune,  and  not  the 
person  of  her  husband ;  and  that  she  moreover  regrets  not  having 
been  able  to  prostitute  herself  to  a  more  wealthy  purchaser." 

Let  the  reader  fairly  say,  whether  the  open  speaking  of  Heloise 
does  not  justify  itself,  by  the  honesty  and  veritable  delicacy  of  the 
doctrine  set  forth.  The  mingling  of  intense  feeling  with  unselfish 
thought  for  him  addressed,  was  never  more  vividly  exhibited. 
Her  appeals  are  made  in  the  most  generous  spirit,  while  within 
them  may  be  traced  the  involuntary  cries  of  a  heart  that  feels  itself 
scarcely  yet  understood,  even  by  the  man  to  whom  it  is  wholly 
given.  Men  cannot  comprehend  that  yearning  for  the  tenderness 
of  love,  when  the  passion  of  love  is  denied,  which  women  feel. 
Men,  w^hen  deprived  of  the  passionate  expression  of  their  affection, 
feel  as  if  all  were  lost,  and  nothing  less  contents  them ;  but  a. 


134 


H  E  L  0  I  S  E  . 


woman  can  rest  satisfied  with  deprivation  of  personal  assurance  of 
her  lover's  fondness,  if  she  possess  undoubted  proof  that  his  tender- 
ness of  attachment, — his  love  remains  securely  hers.  And  with 
what  exquisite  tact  of  delicate  suMety  does  Heloise  convey  this 
desire  of  her  woman's  soul !  How  she  begins  by  conjuring  Abelard 

in  the  name  of  her  sisterhood  as  well  as  herself,  and  gradually,  

as  her  pen  warms  into  more  individual  fervour  as  she  goes  on,  

how  insensibly  does  she  fall  into  the  more  -exclusive  form  of 
address.  She  beseeches  him  to  write  to  her  and  her  nuns ;  and 
while  entreating  it  as  a  relief  to  their  anxiety  for  his  safety,  be- 
trays how  the  feminine  instinct,  the  desire  to  yield  consolation, 
actuates  the  request.  She  says :— "  In  the  name  of  Christ,  who 
still  reserves  you  for  his  service,  and  whose  lowliest  servants  we 
are  as  well  as  yours, — ah !  we  conjure  you,  deign  to  write  to  us 
frequently.  Tell  us,  amid  what  shipwrecks  you  are  still  tossing, 
we  need  to  know  them.  We  alone  remain  to  you  in  this  world ; 
let  us  take  part  in  your  sorrows,  as  in  your  joys.  Wounded  spirits 
find  some  consolation  in  the  compassion  they  inspii-e ;  a  burden 
sustained  by  many  is  borne  more  easily,  and  seems  more  light.  If 
this  tempest  should  abate,  hasten, — hasten  your  letters ;  we  cannot 
be  too  soon  re-assured.  Whatever  be  their  contents,  they  cannot 
but  do  us  good,  since  they  will  at  least  prove  that  you  hold  us  in 
remembrance. 

"  How  sweet,  it  is  to  receive  a  letter  from  an  absent  friend! 
Seneca  teaches  us  this  from  his  own  example,  when  he  writes  to 
Lucilius : — '  You  write  to  me  often,  and  I  thank  you  ;  for  you  show 
yourself  to  me  in  the  only  manner  possible  to  you.  I  never  receive 
one  of  your  letters,  but  we  are  immediately  together.'  If  the  por- 
traits of  our  absent  friends  gently  beguile  our  sight,  and  charm  the 
regrets  of  absence  by  a  vain  phantom  of  consolation,  what  far  more 
lively  joy  should  we  not  feel  in  receiving  letters  which  bring  us 
the  actual  impress  of  the  absent  friend ! 


H  E  L  0  I  S  E 


135 


'•Thanks  be  to  heaven,  these  means  still  remain  to  you  for 
affording  us  your  presence  ;  malice  does  not  forbid  it  to  you,  no 
obstacle  interposes ;  let  not  delay,  I  beseech  you,  arise  from  your 
ne2:li2:ence. 

"  You  have  written  to  your  friend  a  long  consolation,  with  a 
view  to  his  misfortunes,  it  is  true,  but  touching  yours.  While  thus 
minutely  recalling  them  to  console  him,  you  have  greatly  added  to 
our  affliction :  while  seeking  to  assuage  his  hurts,  you  have  open- 
ed new  wounds  in  our  grief,  and  you  have  widened  the  uld  ones. 
Ileal,  in  mercy,  the  sufferings  you  have  inflicted,  since  you  pour 
balm  on  those  that  others  have  caused.  You  have  soothed  the 
sorrows  of  a  friend,  of  a  companion,  and  you  have  discharged  the 
debt  of  friendship  and  close  intimacy;  but  your  obligation  towards 
us  is  still  more  sacred :  for  it  is  not  friendship  we  feel  towards  you, 
but  adoration  and  worship ;  we  are  not  your  companions,  but  your 
daughters  ;  and  if  there  be  a  name  yet  more  tender  and  more  holy 
'tis  that  becomes  us.  As  to  the  importance  of  the  debt  which 
engages  you  to  us,  is  it  needful  to  dwell  on  proof  and  evidence,  as 
if  of  any  thing  doubtful  ?  After  God,  you  are  the  sole  founder  of 
this  retreat,  the  sole  architect  of  this  Oratory,  the  sole  creator  of 
this  community.  You  have  not  built  upon  a  foundation  already 
made ;  all  here  is  your  work.  This  solitude,  frequented  only  by 
wild  animals  and  robbers,  had  never  known  human  habitation,  had 
never  possessed  a  single  house.  Upon  the  very  dens  of  wild  beasts, 
upon  the  very  haunts  of  marauders,  -here,  where  the  name  of  the 
Lord  had  never  been  heard,  you  raised  a  divine  tabernacle,  a 
temple  dedicated  to  the  Holy  Ghost,  the  Comforter.  For  this 
work  you  never  had  recourse  to  the  wealth  of  kings  or  princes, 
when  you  might  have  obtained  aught  you  demanded,  in  order  that 
nothing  of  what  was  done  might  owe  its  existence  to  any  but  your- 
self.   Clerks  and  scholars  came  in  crowds  to  profit  by  your  instruc- 


136 


H  E  L  0  I  S  E . 


tions,  and  furnislied  you  with  tlie  necessary  means ;  and  those  who 
lived  by  the  benefices  of  the  church,  accustomed  to  receive  rather 
than  to  make  offerings,  those  who  till  then  had  hands  only  for  tak- 
ing and  not  for  giving,  became  profuse  and  importunate  in  their 
liberalities.  This  new  plantation  in  the  field  of  the  Lord  is  then 
truly  your  property.  It  is  filled  with  young  plants  which  require 
watering  that  they  may  flourish.  This  plantation  is  weakly  from 
the  very  circumstance  of  its  being  of  female  growth :  it  is  feeble, 
even  were  it  not  newly  set." 

Thus  does  she  seek  to  interest  him  in  their  young  community ; 
while,  with  true  womanly  sentiment,  glorying  in  attributiog  all 
they  now  possess,  to  him  and  his  pious  exertions.  The  words  with 
which  she  concludes  this  portion  of  her  letter,  are  beautifully 
characteristic.  You,  who  do  so  much  for  your  enemies,  remember 
what  you  owe  to  us,  your  daughters.  And  without  speaking  of 
my  sisters  here,  I  claim  your  debt  towards  myself  \—perclia7ic6  you 
will  he  more  eager  to  recompense  at  once  these  women  iclio  liave 
given  tliemselves  to  God,  in  the  person  oflier  wlio  gave  herself  solely 
to  youT 

How  involuntarily  in  the  sentences  that  follow,  does  the  wo- 
man's heart  betray  its  deep-hidden  sense  of  bruise  and  injury,  while 
asking  spiritual  consolation ;  how  the  secret  pain,  crushed  down  in 
silence  for  so  many  years  of  outward  patience  and  submission, 
speaks  in  throes  of  agony  through  those  calls  for  comfort, — the 
comfort  that  the  assurance  of  his  love  in  unchanged  tenderness  and 
regard  for  her  can  alone  bring.  How  unwilhngly,  even  to  herself, 
has  she  owned  the  keen  sense  of  his  lessened  thought  of  her,  yet 
how  irresistibly  it  presses  upon  her,  and  with  what  self-existent 
force  it  penetrates  through  her  words.  Thus  she  proceeds:— 
"  The  numerous  and  extensive  treatises  which  the  holy  Fathers 
have  composed  with  so  much .  zeal  for  the  instruction,  for  the  en- 


H  E  L  0  I  S  E . 


13T 


couragement,  and  even  for  tlie  consolation  of  nuns,  your  vast  eru- 
dition acquaints  you  with  "better  than  our  helplessness.  And  it  is 
not  without  some  painful  wonder  that  I  have  remarked  your  long 
forgetfulness  of  those  kindly  commencements  you  made  in  our 
conversion.  Oh  my  master !  nothing  has  moved  you  on  our  be- 
half, neither  Christian  charity,  nor  your  love  for  us,  nor  the 
example  of  the  Holy  Fathers.  You  have  abandoned  me  in  my 
tottering  faith,  and  in  the  deep  dejection  of  my  soul.  Your  voice 
hath  not  rejoiced  mine  ear,  your  letters  have  not  consoled  my 
solitude. 

"  Yet  you  know  the  sanctity  of  the  duties  which  your  engage- 
ments impose  upon  you.  Hath  not  the  sacrament  of  marriage 
united  us  to  each  other  ?  And  what  claims  are  wanting  upon  your 
affection  for  me,  if  it  be  true  that  in  the  face  of  heaven  and  earth 
I  have  always  burned  for  you  with  a  love  unlimited?  Dear — 
dear — you  know,  and  no  one  is  ignorant  of  it,  that  in  losing  you,  I 
have  lost  all." 

The  repetition  of  that  simple  title,  "  Dear — dear,"  is  ineffably 
moving  in  its  pathos  of  eloquence:  it  is  like  her  heart  sobbing 
forth  its  irrepressible  sense  of  loss  and  woe.  It  reminds  one  of  the 
knell  that  rings  in  Milton's  beautifully  mournful  iteration  : — "  ISTow 
thou  art  gone  !  Now  thou  art  gone  !  "  which  has  struck  upon  so 
many  bereft  hearts  with  sympathy  of  lament  in  reading  the 
"  Lycidas." 

Elsewhere  Heloise  says  with  generous  compunction,  and  with 
the  same  under-current  of  appeal,  seeking  to  awaken  his  tenderness 
while  tenderly  and  humbly  pouring  forth  her  own  undying  love 
for  him : 

"  How  dear  have  I  cost  you !    And  yet,  most  innocent  was  I, 
you  know.    Crime  consists  not  in  deed,  but  in  intention.  Justice 
does  not  weigh  the  event,  but  the  thought  which  produced  it. 
18 


138 


11  E  L  0  I  S  E 


Yon,  who  alone  have  been  tlie  object  of  my  every  sentiment,  can 
alone  judge  them.  I  abide  by  your  sentence — I  leave  myself  to 
your  verdict." 

The  conclusion  of  this  finely  eloquent  letter  is  worthy  to  form 
its  climax.  It  is  solemn  in  its  characteristic  fervour  and  simplicity, 
dignity,  and  humility  : — "  By  that  God  Himself,  to  whom  you  have 
consecrated  yourself,  I  conjure  you  to  restore  me  your  presence  in 
the  only  manner  possible  to  you ;  that  is  to  say,  by  the  consoling 
virtue  of  a  letter.  Thus  re-animated,  I  shall  at  least  be  able  to 
apply  myself  with  more  fervency  to  the  Divine  service.  Formerly, 
when  you  sought  to  win  me  into  mundane  enjoyments,  you  plied 
me  ceaselessly  with  letters;  each  day  your  lays  placed  your 
Heloise  in  every  mouth ;  every  place,  every  house  rang  with  my 
name.  This  eloquence,  of  old  employed  to  incite  me  to  terrestrial 
pleasures,  shall  it  not  now  dedicate  itself  to  the  holy  purpose  of 
drawing  me  towards  Heaven  ?  Once  again,  bethink  you  of  the 
duty  you  owe  ;  consider  what  I  ask :  and  I  conclude  this  long  letter 
by  a  brief  close.    Farewell — you  are  all  to  me." 

Abelard's  reply  was  couched  in  equally  characteristic  terms.  It 
shows  the  man  to  us  in  visible  form — ^the  egoist,  the  clever  dialec- 
tician, the  expert  sojDhist,  with  just  the  touch  of  j)edantry  belonging 
to  his  conscious  attainments,  and  his  pugnacious  disposition.  He 
was  proud  of  his  intellectual  strength,  and  loved  to  prove  it  in 
intellectual  combats  ;  he  felt  his  erudite  superiority,  and  was  fond 
of  opportunity  for  evincing  it  to  the  world.  His  habit  of  doctrin- 
ising  and  dogmatising  not  only  made  him  ever  on  the  fret  for  de- 
monstrating his  learned  knowledge  in  public,  but  it  led  him  into 
perpetual  quotation  in  his  private  letters.  He  even  imbued  his 
pupil,  Heloise,  with  this  addiction  to  the  citing  of  authorities,  from 
the  ancient  classic  writers  in  philosophy,  and  from  the  Fathers  of 
the  Church  in  controversy.    She  quotes  Seneca  and  St.  Jerome  in 


H  E  L  0  I  S  E 


139 


the  course  of  lier  letters  to  Abelard ;  and  lie  mentions  tliat  in  the 
very  act  of  taking  the  veil,  slie  ejaculated  amid  sobs  and  tears  the 
complaint  of  Cornelia,  from  Lucan's  "  Pharsalia."  In  Abelard's 
answer  to  Heloise's  first  letter,  we  behold  liim  grave,  staid,  almost 
reproving — the  austere  monk,  the  admonitory  pastor.  He  absolves 
himself  from  the  charge  of  neglecting  her  and  her  sisterhood,  on 
the  plea,  that  knowing  her  to  be  richly  endowed  with  all  gifts  of 
divine  grace,  he  felt  support  from  him  to  be  unnecessary,  and  that 
he  had  therefore  administered  no  exhortation,  addressed  no  precept 
to  the  community  of  nuns  at  Paraclete.  He  heaps  her  with  lauda- 
tion, but  expresses  no  single  word  of  sympathy  for  her  avowed 
weakness,  or  auy  syllable  that  shows  he  comprehends  herself  The 
nearest  phrases  approaching  to  what  might  serve  to  show  that  her 
craving  for  his  tenderness  meets  response,  are  those  where  he  says, 
"  it  is  especially  with  this  hope  that  I  send  you  the  psalter  which 
you  requested  of  me,  Sister  very  dear  to  me  formerly  in  toorldly 
life^  now  a  thousand  times  more  dear  to  me  in  Christ  Jesus^  And 
afterwards : — "  You  know,  very  dear^  and  well  heloved^  what  affec- 
tionate charity  your  convent,  (&c." 

The  lack  of  sympathetic  apprehension  of  her  own  nature,  while 
overwhelmmg  her  with  praise  as  Abbess,  is  keenly  felt  by  Hel- 
oise ;  and  of  this  her  second  letter  bears  witness.  In  it,  her  reti- 
cence is  less,  her  passionate  implorings  more  vehement :  she  sees 
that  her  reserve  is  misunderstood,  her  generous  self-controul  mis- 
taken for  competent  self  sustainment.  She  casts  herself  now  more 
openly  upon,  his  help,  invokes  it,  owns  how  sorely  she  requires  it, 
accuses  herself  of  defalcations  still  more  deplorably  needing  his 
pastoral  assistance,  and  confesses  to  want  of  devoutness,  and  to 
failing  in  spirit,  in  order  that  he  may  be  urged  into  supplying  her 
with  encouragement.  She  feels  that  she  has  been  hitherto  too  si- 
lent, too  secret  in  her  suffering;  that  he  cannot  comprehend  her 


140 


H  E  L  0  I  S  E 


delicacy  of  restraint  in  regret,  and  that  she  must  no  longer 
forbear  from  letting  him  see  the  extent  of  her  yearning  for  his 
comfort  and  kindness.  But  with  what  womanly  warmth  and 
earnestness,  with  what  womanly  effusion  of  appeal  she  flings  her 
soul's  troubles  before  him,  and  supplicates  his  manly  strength  to 
come  to  the  rescue  of  her  acknowledged  weakness.  How  tragic  is 
that  half-wild  allusion  to  her  having  preferred  his  will  before  that 
of  Heaven  itself:  those  bitter  self-reproaches ;  those  vehement  dis- 
claimers of  fortitude  and  merit  in  endurance ;  those  almost  fierce 
rejections  of  his  praises  :  she  will  not  allow  herself  to  deserve  them, 
for  she  feels  but  too  acutely  how  far  rather  she  would  prefer  re- 
ceiving consolation  from  him  than  applause  : — "  God  knows, — God 
knows,  that  all  my  life  I  have  more  feared  offending  you  than  even 
Himself ;  and  that  it  is  you,  far  more  than  Him,  that  I  have  sought 
to  please.  It  was  your  command,  and  not  the  voice  of  Heaven, 
which  bowed  me  beneath  the  conventual  yoke.  What  then  is  my 
fate  of  misery  and  despair,  if  so  many  sufferings  are  lost  for  me 
here  below,  when  I  am  not  to  receive  any  recompense  for  them 
yonder  above  ?  My  dissimulation  hitherto  has  deceived  you,  as  it 
has  done  others :  you  have  attributed  to  a  rehgious  impulse  that 
which  was  but  feint  and  hypocrisy ;  this  is  why  you  recommend  your- 
self to  my  prayers  ;  but  you  demand  of  me  what  I  ask  from  you." 

"  Have  less  confidence  in  me,  I  conjure  you,  lest  you  cease  to 
aid  me  by  your  prayers.  No,  I  am  not  cured  :  do  not  then  deprive 
of  the  relief  of  healing.  No,  I  am  not  enriched  with  grace ;  no 
longer  defer  then  coming  to  help  my  need.  No,  I  am  not  strong ; 
take  care  that  I  faint  not  ere  you  can  sustain  me  in  my  fall.  Many 
have  found  their  destruction  in  flattery,  and  it  has  bereft  them  of 
the  support  of  which  they  stood  in  want.  *  *  *  *  A 
truce  therefore,  I  entreat  you,  to  your  commendations  ;  do  not  in- 
cur the  shameful  reproach  which  attaches  to  the  framers  of  flat- 


H  E  L  0  I  S  J^J . 


141 


teries  and  lies.  If  you  believe  that  in  me  there  is  still  some  poor 
remainder  of  virtue,  dread  lest  it  should  exhale  in  the  breath  of 
vanity.  A  skilful  physician  descries  the  hidden  malady,  al- 
though no  symptoms  betray  its  existence.  And  God  makes  little 
account  of  all  those  outside  shows  which  the  reprobate  can  assume  in 
common  with  the  elect.  Often  the  really  just  neglect  those  ex- 
terior observances  which  strike  every  eye,  while  no  one  conforms  to 
them  with  more  scrupulous  care  than  the  hypocrites." 

And  then  she  concludes  with  that  profound  humility  taught  by 
conscious  weakness  combined  with  strength, — the  united  softness 
and  potency  of  love  in  such  a  nature  as  hers. 

"  I  am  too  happy  in  your  praises,  and  my  heart  yields  itself  too 
delightedly  to  them,  not  to  render  them  dangerous  for  me.  I  am 
but  too  well  disposed  to  steep  myself  in  their  sweet  poison,  since 
my  sole  study  is  to  pleasure  you  in  every  thing.  Awaken  your 
fears,  I  beseech  you,  and  lay  aside  your  confidence,  so  that  your  so- 
licitude may  be  ever  ready  to  aid  me.  It  is  now  that  the  danger 
is  greater  than  ever.  Do  not  exhort  me  to  virtue,  and  excite  me  to 
the  combat,  by  saying : — '  Virtue  reaches  its  height  in  weakness 
and,  '  the  crown  will  only  be  given  to  him  who  combats  to  the 
end.'  I  seek  not  the  crown  of  victory ;  sufiicient  for  me  to  avoid 
danger.  It  is  wiser  to  remove  from  peril,  than  to  engage  in  war- 
fare. Let  but  God  assign  me  a  place  in  the  smallest  corner  of  hea- 
ven, I  shall  be  satisfied." 

That  axiom  of  Heloise, — "  I  seek  not  the  crown  of  victory ; 
sufficient  for  me  to  avoid  danger " — is  a  golden  one  for  women. 
She  had  but  too  good  reason  to  know  and  feel  its  essential  truth. 

Abelard's  reply  to  this  second  letter  is  still  more  severe  in  tone : 
he  rebukes  her  for  murmuring,  and  constrains  her  to  resume  her 
former  quietude.  He  preaches  resignation ;  he  enforces  acquies- 
cence ;  he  assumes  the  character  of  pastoral  director  in  reproof,  and 


142 


H  E  L  0  I  S  E  . 


reverts  to  tlieir  hjgone  mutual  relations  in  a  light  of  shared  trans- 
gression that  is  more  consonant  with  his  character  than  with  hers. 
She  is  all  generosity  in  Uame-taMng,  as  in  everything  else  ;  while 
he  is, — but  fortunately,  it  is  the  province  of  the  present  discussion 
to  analyse  the  character  of  Heloise,  and  not  that  of  Abelard. 

Her  next,  and  third  letter,  is  as  characteristic  of  herself  as  her 
former  ones,  in  its  way  :— it  begins  by  the  simple,  but  impressive 
sentence :  "  It  shall  not  be  said  that  you  can  once  accuse  me  of  dis- 
obedience :  my  words  shall  be  moderate,  if  not  my  grief,  and  your 
prohibition  shall  serve  me  as  a  curb."    She  utters  no  farther  allu- 
sion to  her  own  inner  being  after  the  few  words  : — "  Would  to  God 
my  sick  heart  were  as  disposed  as  my  pen  to  obey  you." — After 
these,— set,  as  it  were,  a  seal  upon  the  past,— she  sedulously  ap^Dlies 
herself  to  proving  her  submission  to  his  will,  by  entering  thorough- 
ly into  her  appointed  course  of  strict  and  mere  duty.    She  ad- 
dresses him  no  longer  as  Abelard,  the  lost  husband ;  but  as  Abe- 
lard, abbot  of  Saint  Gildas.    She  enters  thoroughly  into  the  rules 
for  conventual  discipline,  her  projects  for  regulating  her  commu- 
nity of  Paraclete,  consulting  with  him  (as  their"  pastoral  superior) 
upon  the  due  observances  to  be  established  for  the  practice  of  her 
nuns  and  herself,  and  subjecting  to  his  consideration  the  different 
points  in  question.    She  supports  her  views  with  a  multitude  of 
citations  from  the  Apostles  and  the  Fathers  of  the  Church;  she  di- 
lates with  learned  and  saintly  zeal  upon  the  various  arguments  she 
brings  forward ;  and  shows  that  she  not  only  conforms  to  his  wish 
by  making  the  exercise  of  her  mind  serve  as  a  check  to  the  ebulli- 
tion of  her  heart,  but  that  she  diligently  endeavours  to  make  ho- 
liness her  sole  aim  henceforth.    Eeligion  became  to  her  the  climax 
of  her  affection.    Love  which  had  ruled  her  heart,  now  engrossed 
her  soul,  and  fitly  consummated  it  to  immortal  perfection  of  trust 
and  reliance. 


H  E  L  0  I  S  E. 


143 


Witli  the  exception  of  one  other  short  epistle,  addressed — on 
the  same  subject,  and  in  the  same  tone — to  Abelard,  in  his  capa- 
city as  spiritual  guide  and  director,  we  have  no  farther  letters  from 
Heloise,  save  one  which  she  wrote  to  Peter  the  Venerable  in  answer 
to  his,  sendino-  her  the  remains  of  Abelard  to  Paraclete.  She 
writes  briefly,  staidly,  simply ;  but  there  are  two  little  sentences 
that  speak  all  the  more  eloquently  for  their  forced  composure.  In 
the  one,  she  entreats  of  his  goodness  that  he  will  send  her  the  form 
of  absolution,  signed  and  sealed  with  his  own  hand,  that  she  may 
have  it  affixed  to  the  tomb  of  "  The  Master,"  as  she  denominates 
Abelard.  In  the  other,  she  piously  recommends  their  son,  Astro- 
labus,  to  the  protection  and  care  of  her  venerable  friend  ;  and 
seems  thus  to  take  leave  evermore  of  life  and  this  world. 

Perhaps  never  did  a  few  letters — fortunately  preserved  to  pos- 
terity— contain  more  clear  self-characterization  unconsciously  evi- 
denced, than  these  letters  of  Heloise.  They  dej^ict  her  subtly  but 
surely. 

Her  life,  as  her  letters,  denote  her  in  marked  unequivocal  lines 
of  legible  trace.  Her  native  excellence  speaks  for  itself  in  her 
singleness  of  love.  Ardent,  yet  constant;  susceptible,  yet  fixed. 
In  her  girlhood,  self-forgetting;  in  her  womanhood,  tender  and 
self-sacrificing;  in  her  widowhood,  grave,  faithful,  self-redeeming. 
In  youth,  in  the  very  flower  of  beauty  and  promise,  voluntarily 
quitting  the  world  because  the  man  she  loved  could  no  longer  live 
there ;  in  age,  devoting  herself  to  the  task  of  rendering  herself 
worthy  of  him, — as  she  believed  him  to  be. 

Heloise  is  the  very  beau-ideal  of  generous  and  unselfish  love. 


N.'wYorki  I)  Ai- 


i 


i 


LAURA. 


In  the  world's  tliouglit,  Laura  sits  enshrined  as  a  Poet's  Idol. 
Hers  was  the  happiness  of  swaying  a  poet's  thoughts  to  highest 
beauty  of  expression ;  of  influencing  his  feelings  to  loftiest  senti- 
ment. She  elevated  his  intellectual  faculty;  and  ennobled  his 
desires — one  of  the  choicest  felicities  that  can  befal  a  woman.  She 
had  the  rare  privilege  of  exciting  a  passion  warm  as  it  was  regard- 
ful, constant  as  it  was  strong,  exalted  as  it  was  profound.  She  had 
the  honour  of  inspiring  an  affection  in  one  of  the  most  admirable 
of  men,  and  of  enjoying  the  renown  which  his  genius  and  his  at- 
tachment conferred  upon  her,  without  a  shadow  of  suspicion  fall- 
ing upon  her  own  fair  repute ;  while  she  possessed  the  power  of 
tempering  the  ardour  that  glowed  in  her  lover's  veins  with  a  feel- 
ing of  honouring  esteem  which  held  them  both  to  virtue,  and  ob- 
tained for  them  virtue's  rewards — self-respect  and  the  homage  of 
mankind. 

Laura  embodies  our  idea  of  a  perfect  lady.  She  was  essen- 
tially a  lady  in  character,  being  gentle,  refined,  discreet,  modest,  and 
virtuous;  a  lady  in  manner — benignant,  courteous,  and  blandly 
dignified ;  a  lady  in  habit — accustomed  to  move  in  distinguished 
society  with  ease  and  grace ;  and  a  lady  by  alliance,  as  well  as  by 

19 


146 


LAURA. 


inlieritance.  She  was  bom  a  lady ;  being  of  gentle,  tliougli  not 
of  noble  birtb.  Her  fatlier  was  Auclibert  de  Noves,  tbe  possessor 
of  a  landed  estate  at  tlie  town  of  tbis  name,  wbicb  lies  about  two 
leagues  from  Avignon,  on  tbe  left  bank  of  tbe  river  Durance ;  and 
be  filled  a  civic  post  of  some  importance  at  Avignon,  wbere  be 
possessed  a  bouse,  still  in  existence  at  tbe  beginning  of  tbe  six- 
teentb  century,  wben  it  bore  tbe  name  of  "  Madame  Laure,"  in  tradi- 
tional commemoration  of  tbe  celebrated  beauty's  baving  once  dwelt 
tbere.  Tbe  bouse  stood  near  tbe  entrance  of  tbe  suburb  of  tbe 
Cordeliers,  wbicb  bas  since  been  enclosed  witbin  tbe  walls  of  Avig- 
non; and  it  was  eitber  bere,  or  at  ber  father's  country-seat  at 
Noves,  tbat  Laura  first  drew  breatb,  in  tbe  year  1308.  Sbe  was 
left,  together  with  one  brother  and  one  sister,  under  the  guardian- 
shiji  of  ber  mother,  by  the  will  of  Audibert;  who,  dying  in  1320, 
bequeathed  to  bis  eldest  daughter,  Laura,  as  her  dowry,  nearly  two 
thousand  pounds — a  considerable  sum  at  that  period.  Beautiful, 
well  born,  and  rich,  Laura  was  wedded  to  Hugo  de  Sade ; 
whose  progenitors,  for  several  generations,  had  held  some  of  the 
most  honourable  municipal  ofiices  in  Avignon.  The  marriage  con- 
tract was  signed  at  Noves,  on  the  16th  January,  1325  ;  Laura  being 
then  seventeen  years  old,  and  her  husband  rather  more  than  twenty. 
The  detail  of  a  few  of  the  attires  which  formed  part  of  her  bridal 
equipment,  gives  a  curious  idea  of  the  costume  worn  at  tbat  period 
by  ladies  of  ber  rank  and  country.  "  Two  complete  suits,  one  of 
green,  and  the  other  of  scarlet,  trimmed  with  fur  ; "  a  coronal  of 
silver,  worth  twenty  golden  florins ; "  and,  "  a  bed  " — probably  fur- 
nished with  silken,  or  tapestried  hangings,  and  carved  in  wood ; 
which  last  item  conveys  the  impression  of  that  fashion  of  southern 
newly-married  wives  bringing  articles  of  household  value,  as  well 
as  of  wearing  apparel,  for  their  wedding  outfit,  which  still  prevails 
in  many  parts  of  tbe  continent.    The  two  suits,  furred  and  rich- 


LAURA. 


14T 


coloured,  with,  tlie  silver  adornment  for  her  hair,  betoken  the  kind 
,of  social  grade  in  which  she  was  to  take  her  place ;  and  accord- 
ingly, we  find  her  appearing  at  the  state  assemblies,  and  court  en- 
tertainments given  in  the  palace  at  Avignon,  which  had  lately  been 
adopted  by  the  popes  as  the  seat  of  their  residence.  The  rank  of 
Laura's  h.usband,  together  with  her  own  beauty  and  distinguished 
graces,  rendered  her  presence  at  the  papal  court  indispensable  ;  and 
she  formed  one  of  the  chiefest,  and  most  virtuous  ornaments  of  a 
spot  where  the  perpetual  influx  of  strangers  had  introduced  much 
corrujDtion  of  morals  and  manners.  Among  the  distinguished  Ital- 
ians, whom  the  advent  of  the  Romish  court  had  brought  to  Avig- 
non, was  the  young  poet,  Petrarch ;  whose  family  having  been 
driven  from  Tuscany  by  the  civil  contentions  of  the  Guelphs  and  the 
Ghibelines,  now  came  to  seek  an  asylum  in  the  county  Venaissin. 
Laura  was  at  this  time  nineteen  years  of  age;  Petrarch  twenty- 
three.  At  an  early  hour,  in  a  morning  of  spring — at  6  o'clock  on 
the  6th  of  April,  1327,  (Monday,  not  Friday,  as  some  have  stated) 
in  Passion  Week — Petrarch  was  attending  divine  service  in  the 
church  of  St.  Clair,  when  he  first  beheld  the  face  of  her  who  became 
his  life's  cynosure.  The  poetical  brain,  the  heart  of  youthful  man- 
hood, the  Italian  temperament,  the  imagination  of  fire,  and  the 
intellect,  refined  as  it  was  vigorous,  all  combined  in  conceiving  a 
sentiment,  which  was  Love  in  its  most  beautiful  form — impassioned, 
devoted,  constant.  It  took  birth  in  one  instant,  and  lasted  until 
death.  It  survived  all ;  it  survived  coldness,  disappointment — even 
the  grave.  It  endured  through  rejection,  it  was  proof  against  ab- 
sence, it  lost  none  of  its  fervour  from  being  put  into  words,  and 
abated  nothing  of  its  strength  from  being  versed  with  profusion 
of  sonnets.  The  force  residing  in  monotony,  which  characterizes 
Petrarch's  passion  for  Laura,  as  traceable  in  his  poems,  is  eloquently 
described  by  Leigh  Hunt,  where  he  says  on  this  subject : — "  One 


148 


LAURA. 


love,  and  one  poet,  sufficed  to  give  the  whole  civilized  world  a 
sense  of  delicacy  in  desire,  of  the  abundant  riches  to  be  found  in 
one  single  idea,  of  the  going  out  of  a  man's  self  to  dwell  in  the  soul 
and  happiness  of  another,  which  has  served  to  refine  the  passion 
for  all  modern  times ;  and  perhajDS  will  do  so,  as  long  as  love  i-e- 
news  the  world." 

That  Petrarch's  was  no  Platonic  affection,  may  ho  gathered 
from  his  own  confession,  in  his  "  Dialogues  with  St.  Augustine," 
where  he  owns  that  he  loves  both  the  soul  and  body  of  Laura ; 
depicting  the  violence  of  his  passionate  emotions  when  near  to  her 
or  when  far  from  her  ;  his  fruitless  attempts  to  win  her :  his  vain 
efforts  to  conquer  a  love  which  he  found  to  be  hopeless :  and  while 
averring  that  he  had  never  been  able  to  obtain  the  slightest  favour 
from  her,  offers  honouring  homage  to  her  purity  and  virtue.  And 
there  is  touching  witness  borne  to  the  strength,  as  well  as  warmth 
of  his  passion,  where  he  thus  writes  in  1343 — sixteen  years  after 
he  had  first  seen  Laura: — "My  love  is  vehement,  excessive,  but 
exclusive  and  vu'tuous.  No,  this  very  disquietude,  these  suspi- 
cions, this  watchfulness,  this  delirium,  this  weariness  of  every 
thing,  are  not  the  signs  of  a  virtuous  love."  This  self-introspec- 
tion, and  candour  of  self-judgment,  together  with  the  testimony  it 
affords  of  the  poet's  constancy,  and  inner  heart, — for  the  passage 
is  quoted  from  his  "  De  secreto  conflictu," — 'is  unspeakably  beauti- 
ful. There  is  a  soul  of  melancholy  mingled  with  its  charm  in  Pe- 
trarch's writing,  springing  from  unsatisfied  passion  with  intensity 
of  satisfaction  in  the  beloved  object,  that  poetry  alone  can  express. 
Shelley  discerningly  observes  : — ■"  Petrarch's  verses  are  as  spells, 
which  unseal  the  inmost  enchanted  fountains  of  the  delight  which  is 
in  the  grief  of  love."  There  are  none  like  poets  themselves  for 
penetrating  to  the  core  of  a  poet's  excellence  ;  and  it  is  invaluable 
to  have  the  comments  of  two  such  poets  as  Leigh  Hunt  and  Shel- 
ley upon  a  third,  like  Petrarch. 


L  A  U  E  A. 


149 


Laura's  beliaviour  to  her  renowned  poet-lover  seems  to  liave 
been  consummate  in  womanly  virtue.    Married  to  a  man  slie  es- 
teemed, and  respecting  lierself,  slie  could  not  but  preserve  Ms 
lionour  and  lier  own  inviolate  ;  married  to  a  man  wliom  there  is 
every  reason  to  believe  slie  loved,  slie  could  feel  no  passion  for 
any  other.    But  that  she  entertained  a  very  peculiar  regard  for 
Petrarch,  is  equally  true.    It  was  doubtless  a  regard  made  up  of 
tender  concern  and  generous  sentiment,  such  as  every  woman  of 
feeling  extends  towards  any  man  who  loves  her  above  all  other 
women  ;  she  cannot  help  regarding  him  with  a  symj)athy  beyond 
that  which  other  men  excite  in  her.    And  in  addition  to  this, 
Laura's  regard  for  Petrarch  must  have  been  compounded  of  the 
proudest  emotions :  pride  in  his  genius,  pride  that  he  should  ad- 
mire her,  pride  that  he  could  be  induced  to  prefer  her  self-respect 
to  his  own  gratification  ;  and  pride  that  his  love,  instead  of  injur- 
ing her  reputation,  reflected  glory  on  her  name,  and  made  it 
famed  throughout  the  world.    Her  conduct  is  described  as  perfect 
in  discretion  and  feminine  tact.    She  treated  him  with  gentle  firm- 
ness; and  by  her  skill  in  combining  consideration  for  him  with 
consideration  towards  herself,  succeeded  in  preserving  her  own 
dignity,  while  she  repressed,  without  lessening  his  ardour.  Hand- 
some, accomplished,  impetuous,  her  Italian  poet-lover  must  have 
required  all  the  serene  self-possession  of  a  Laura,  to  restrain  his 
advances  without  chilling    his   affection;    and  to  quench  his 
hopes  without  reducing  him  to  desperation.    Courteous,  even 
kind,  whenever  his  manner  betrayed  nothing  that  could  alarm  her 
prudence  ;  she  failed  not  to  behave  with  reserve  each  time  he  ven- 
tured upon  a  declaration  of  his  feelings.    She  could  not  avoid 
meeting  him  constantly,  frequentmg  the  same  society  as  they  did ; 
but  her  demeanour  was  so  nicely  guarded,  so  judiciously  modified, 
that  each  occasion  served  but  to  raise  his  admiration  for  her  char- 


150 


LAURA. 


acter.  At  parties  of  pleasure,  at  court,  at  the  liouses  of  mutual 
friends,  at  church,  or  in  walking,  they  perpetually  encountered 
each  other  ;  but  she  so  happily  blended  a  modest  reticence  with  a 
sweet  and  frank  friendliness,  that  his  love  for  her  moral  qualities 
kept  pace  with  his  love  of  her  countless  personal  attractions. 

Laura's  behaviour  to  Petrarch  has  been  called  coquetry ;  but, 
— ^besides  that  his  own  testimony  absolves  her  from  the  charge, — 
a  woman  who  secures  the  lasting  reverence  of  a  man's  heart  in 
proportion  with  its  encreasing  passionate  attachment  to  her,  can 
never  be  a  coquette.    So  hollow  and  vain  an  art  as  coquetry,  may 
succeed  in  enslaving  a  man's  senses  ;  but  it  never  engages  his  hon- 
ouring preference.    Laura  possessed  matchless  address  ;  but  it  was 
the  address  of  a  pure-minded  woman,  who  respected  herself,  loved 
her  husband,  and  regarded  her  lover  with  a  feeling  that  intuitively 
dictated  the  utmost  delicacy  of  discrimination  in  dealing  with  his 
passion  for  herself.    With  the  conviction  of  its  hopelessness,  she 
taught  him  the  blessing  that  existed  in  its  beautiful  singleness,  in 
its  all-sufficing  exclusiveness,  in  its  truth  and  earnestness,— in  itself, 
in  short,  irrespective  of  return  or  of  fruition ;  the  simple  fact  of 
loving  so  perfect  a  being  as  she,  in  his  eyes  was,  constituted  a  bliss 
with  which  no  ordinary  love  could  compare.    Happy  the  woman 
who  possesses  the  secret  of  thus  inspiring  consociated  esteem  and 
love  ;  of  softening  the  pangs  which  unrequited  passion  inflicts,  by 
the  balmy  consolation  that  lies  in  enhanced  approval  of  her  excel- 
lence.   The  secret  of  Laura's  undying  influence  over  Petrarch,  lay 
in  a  subtle  sympathetic  affinity  between  them ;— she  tacitly  suf- 
fered him  to  perceive  that  she  sympathized  with  his  love  for  her, 
whUe  denying  herself  to  be  his  love ;  and  he  instinctively  felt  this 
sympathy  to  exist,  although  declaring  that  he  never  knew  whether 
she  loved  him  or  not. 

By  frequent  travelling,  by  visiting  various  parts  of  Flanders, 


LAURA. 


151 


France,  and  Italy,  by  the  cultivation  of  letters,  by  tlie  creations 
of  his  muse,  by  alternate  retirement  in  solitude  at  Vaucluse,  and 
social  intercourse  at  Avignon,  Petrarcli  sought  vainly,  during  a 
period  of  twenty-one  years,  either  to  forget  or  to  extinguish  his 
passion  for  Laura.    Meanwhile  she,  with  her  husband,  continued 
to  reside  at  Avignon,  where  they  gradually  saw  themselves  sur- 
rounded by  numerous  children,  and  possessed  of  their  town- 
people's  estimation  ;  the  quarter  where  they  lived  being  called  by 
the  family  name  of  Sade.    It  lies  towards  the  lower  end  of  the 
town,  on  the  banks  of  the  Rhone ;  and  embraces  that  portion 
which  has  since  been  built  over  with  the  streets  occupying  the 
space  between  two  of  the  gates,  and  near  to  the  church  of  La 
Madeleine.    Commanding  the  spot,  stands  the  rock  on  which  the 
papal  palace  was  erected ;  and  it  is  said  that  from  this  point,  Pe- 
trarch used  to  watch  Laura,  as  she  walked  in  her  garden  amid  the 
leaves  of  those  trees  which  were  his  favourite, — recalhng,  as  they 
did,  her  name,  as  well  as  her  image.    He  planted  the  laurel  tree 
in  abimdance  at  Vaucluse,  where  he  purchased  a  small  property, 
and  made  it  his  abode ;  so  great  a  liking  did  he  take  to  this  seclu- 
ded valley.    Leigh  Hunt — ^that  prince  of  poetical  translators — has 
given  an  English  version  of  one  of  the  many  passages  in  which 
Petrarch  alludes  to  these  associated  ideas  of  Laura,  the  laurel,  and 
the  evergreen  wreath  which  is  to  crown  their  joint  names  hereaf- 
ter.   The  passage  in  question  describes  Laura  as  the  poet  might 
have  seen  her  in  her  garden  at  Avignon  ;  or  in  some  of  the  public 
gardens  of  the  place,  where  they  met  amid  a  concourse  of  greeting 
friends,  and  where  her  gentle  aspect  beamed  upon  his  sight,  sin- 
gled out  from  a  host  of  countenances,  as  the  one,  to  him,  of  the 
whole  human  race : 

"  Giovane  donna  sotto  un  verde  lauro 
Vidi  pill  bianca  e  pii\  fredda  che  neve 
Non  percossa  dal  sol  molti  e  molt  'anni : 


152 


LAURA. 


E'l  suo  parlar,  e'l  bel  viso,  e  Ic  ctiome, 

Mi  piacquer  si,  cli'l  I'lio  a  gli  occhi 

Ed  avro  sempre,  ov'io  sia  in  poggio  o'n  riva." 

"  A  youthful  lady  under  a  green  laurel 
I  saw,  more  fair  and  colder  than  white  snows 
Unshone  upon  for  many  and  many  a  year  : 
And  her  sweet  looks,  and  hair,  and  way  of  speaking, 
So  pleas'd  me,  that  I  have  her  now  before  me, 
And  shall  have,  ever,  whether  on  hill  or  lea." 

In  1339,  the  painter,  Simon  of  Sienna,  arriving  at  Avignon  to 
execute  a  commission  for  embellisliing  the  pontifical  palace  there, 
made  a  portrait  of  Laura,  and  presented  it  to  the  poet,  with  whom 
he  was  on  terms  of  intimacy,  and  who  returned  the  invaluable  gift 
in  kind,  by  composing  two  sonnets  for  the  artist.  These  inter- 
changes, by  which  men  of  genius  possess  the  power  of  adequately 
requiting  such  inestimable  donations,  is  among  their  highest  privi- 
leges. It  remains  matter  of  doubt,  whether  Laura  sat  for  the  por- 
trait ;  whether  it  was  a  duplicate  copy  of  one  which  the  artist 
painted,  as  an  order,  for  the  Sade  family ;  or  whether  it  was  a 
transcript  of  the  impression  whicli  the  personal  beauty  of  the  lady 
made  upon  Simon  Martini's  imagination,  so  that  he  was  enabled 
to  limn  her  likeness  from  memory ;  but  it  is  ascertained  that  he 
introduced  Laura  as  the  principal  figure  in  several  of  his  subse- 
quent pictures. 

On  Petrarch's  return  to  Avignon  in  1342,  after  having  been 
awarded  the  laurel  wreath  of  poetry  at  Rome,  and  crowned  there- 
with in  the  capitol,  Laura  was  less  studiously  reserved  towards 
him,  finding  how  docile  to  reproof  his  passion  for  her  was,  being 
touched  by  its  unabated  constancy,  and  not  insensible  to  the  circum- 
stance of  his  recent  honours,  in  which  her  own  were  necessarily  in- 
volved, since  his  verses  had  given  European  celebrity  to  her  name 
and  beauty.    When  Charles  of  Luxembourg  (afterwards  the  Em- 


LAURA. 


15B 


peror  Charles  IV.)  came  to  Avignon  in  1346,  one  of  liis  first  enqui- 
ries was  for  Laura — Petrarch's  Laura.  At  one  of  the  festive  en- 
tertainments given  in  honour  of  his  visit, — at  a  ball  where  the 
chief  beauties  of  the  town  and  province  were  assembled — she  was 
presented  to  him ;  and,  stepping  forward,  he  reverentially  kissed  her 
upon  the  eyes  and  forehead.  The  company — with  the  taste  and 
enthusiasm  of  a  Provencal  court — applauded  ;  and  Petrarch  re- 
corded the  event  in  a  sonnet,  where  he  manifests  his  triumph  in 
this  jDublic  act  of  homage  to  the  charms  of  his  mistress,  while 
betraying  his  jealous  sensitiveness  at  the  delight  enjoyed  by  other 
li]3s  than  his  own.  .    •  ;  ;  . 

In  the  course  of  years,  domestic  anxieties,  the  cares  of  a  large 
family,  and  the  hand  of  time,  wrought  a  change  in  the  beauty  of 
Laura  ;  her  complexion  lost  its  freshness,  her  figui'e  its  shapeliness, 
and  the  graces  of  the  youthful  lady  were  merged  in  the  mien  of 
the  matronly  woman.  Some  involuntary  surprise  betrayed  itself 
together  with  the  admiration  expressed  by  those  who  beheld  the 
poet's  Laura  for  the  first  time.  "  What ! "  exclaimed  one,  whose 
rank,  in  its  impunity  from  censure,  gave  license  to  his  speech,  "  is  this 
the  fair  prodigy  who  has  made  so  much  noise  in  the  world,  and  who 
turned  Petrarch's  head  ? "  But  to  those  who  uttered  their  wonder 
that  he  should  still  admire  her,  the  lover  replied,  "  Had  I  loved 
her  person  only,  I  had  changed  long  since."  The  eyes  of  a  true 
lover,  with  the  ever-youthful  sight  of  a  poet,  in  addition,  behold 
something  in  the  object  beloved,  which  outlasts  external  change ; 
the  change  of  mortality  itself  cannot  alter  genuine  love ;  for  it 
substitutes  in  place  of  the  vanished  mortal  clay,  an  immortal  ideal, 
and  cherishes  that  evermore  as  its  object  of  eternal  affection. 

Petrarch  is  said  to  have  had  an  interview  with-  Laura  towards 
the  close  of  the  year  1347,  when  he  beheld  her  for  the  last  time 
upon  earth.    He  found  her  amid  a  circle  of  lady-friends ;  she  was 
20 


154 


LAURA. 


looking  serious,  and  pensive;  lier  dress  quiet,  without  jewelled 
ornament,  or  embellisliment.  Her  eyes  wore  an  expression  of  un- 
defined apprehension,  as  of  some  impending  evil,  or  approaching 
attack  of  indisposition,  hardly  yet  fidly  felt.  Her  lover,  moved 
almost  to  tears,  withdrew  abruptly,  seeking  to  hide  his  emotion. 
Laura  followed  him  with  a  look  so  full  of  gracious  regard  and 
gentle  appeal,  that  it  remained  graven  on  his  memory.  The  kind 
of  presage  that  seemed  thus  to  have  struck  upon  the  hearts  of  both 
was  terribly  fulfilled.  A  raging  pestilence,  whick  took  its  origin 
in  China,  after  wasting  Asia  and  the  coasts  of  Africa,  made  its  way 
into  Sicily,  and  quickly  spread  over  the  co]itiuent  of  Europe,  where 
its  devastations  prevailed  during  three  years.  Its  march  was  like 
that  of  the  modern  cholera— from  East  to  West — but  more  awful 
and  overwhelming.  History  furnishes  no  example,  since  the 
deluge,  so  universal,  and  so  calamitous.  A  fire,  believed  either  to 
have  sprung  from  the  earth,  or  fallen  from  the  sky,  consumed  in 
Tartary  three  hundred  miles  of  territory,  and  devoured  in  its  flames 
men,  animals,  trees,  and  even  stones.  Earthquakes,  inundations, 
and  temjDests  occurred  in  various  places ;  while  clouds  of  venomous 
insects  infested  the  air.  In  certain  countries  of  Asia  the  majority 
of  the  inhabitants  died  of  the  infection;  or,  being  seized  with 
frenzy,  bit  and  devoured  each  other.  Boccaccio,  in  the  opening  of 
his  Decameron,  gives  a  forcible  picture  of  the  state  of  his  native 
Florence,  during  this  disastrous  period.  In  summing  up  the  picture 
of  desolation,  the  Italian  novelist  exclaims,  with  a  kind  of  grim 
levity  at  the  conclusion,  that  heightens  the  horror  and  sense  of  the 
jarring  impressions  that  then  confused  and  oppressed  men's  minds : 
— "  How  many  fair  palaces  !  How  many  goodly  houses  !  How  many 
noble  habitations,  filled  before  with  families  of  lords  and  ladies, 
were  then  to  be  seen  empty,  without  any  there  dwelling,  except 
some  servant!   How  many  kindreds,  worthy  of  memory!  How 


LAURA. 


150 


many  great  inheritances ;  and  wliat  plenty  of  riclies  were  left, 
witliout  any  true  successors  !  How  many  good  men !  How  many 
worthy  women  !  How  many  valiant  and  comely  young  men, 
wliom  none  but  Galen,  Hippocrates,  and  Esculapius  (if  tliey  were 
living)  could  have  reputed  any  way  unhealthful,  were  seen  to  dine 
at  morning  with  their  parents,  friends,  and  familiar  confederates, 
and  went  to  sup  in  another  world  with  their  predecessors !  " 

This  dread  plague  broke  out  in  Avignon,  in  January,  1348; 
carrying  off  the  enormous  number  of  one  hundred  and  twenty 
thousand  souls  in  the  space  of  seven  months.  So  large  an  amount 
of  deaths  might  seem  incredible  in  a  town  since  containing  scarcely 
a  fifth  of  the  inhabitants;  but  it  should  be  remembered  that 
Avignon  was  then  the  capital  of  Christendom,  and  that  its  being 
the  seat  of  papal  residence,  drew  a  multitude  of  strangers  thither ; 
besides  that  many  of  the  country  people  from  the  neighbouring 
parts  took  refuge  there,  endeavouring  to  fly  from  infection.  All 
those  who  were  attacked,  died  of  the  disease  in  the  course  of  three 
days.  Among  its  victims,  was  Petrarch's  Laura.  She  felt  the  first 
approaches  of  the  malady  on  the  3d  of  April ;  the  continual 
fever,  and  other  fatal  symptoms  supervening,  left  no  hope  for  one 
whose  health  was  already  dehcate ;  and  she  composedly  prepared 
for  death— making  her  will  that  same  day,  and  receiving  the  last 
sacraments  of  religion.  Her  friends  and  relations,  braving  infec- 
tion, hung  weeping  round  her  bed,  ministering  to  her,  and  watch- 
ing her  last  moments.  They  were  peaceful,  as  such  a  woman's 
should  be.  Laura  lay  there,  calm  and  quiet,  reaping  the  fruits  of 
an  innocent,  virtuous  life,  and  of  a  tranquil  temperament.  Pe- 
trarch's words  describe  her : — 

"  Aguisa  d'un  soave  e  chiaro  lume 
Cui  nutrimento  a  poco  a  poco  manca. 
Pallida  no,  ma  piii  che  neve  bianca, 
Che  senza  vento  in  un  bel  col  fiocchi, 
Parea  posar  come  persona  stanca." 


156 


L  A  U  K  A . 


["  Like  unto  a  clear  and  beauteous  light, 
Whose  nourishment  little  by  little  faileth ; 
Not  pallid,  but  more  white  than  falling  snow. 
In  flakes,  unstirr'd  by  wind,  on  some  fair  hill : 
She  seem'd  to  rest,  like  wearied  traveller  "] 

She  breatlied  lier  last  pure  Lreatli  in  the  air  of  early  day,  ex- 
piring gently  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  on  the  6th  of  April, 
the  fortieth  spring  of  her  years  on  earth.  That  evening,  in  con- 
sonance with  her  own  wishes,  her  remains  were  carried  to  the 
church  of  the  Cordeliers,  and  interred  within  the  chapel  of  the 
Cross,  in  the  tomb  of  the  Sade  family. 

The  jDoet's  soul  felt  the  shadow  of  the  approaching  blow,  in  the 
shape  of  cruel  presages,  and  ill-omened  dreams ;  but  it  fell  u|)on 
him  in  its  terrible  truth,  when  the  news  of  Laura's  death  reached 
him  at  Parma.  The  traces  of  what  must  have  been  his  anguish  at 
the  time,  are  visible  in  that  affecting  memorandum  which  his  own 
hand  left,  written  in  Latin,  and  fastened  to  the  wooden  binding  of 
his  manuscrii:)t  copy  of  Yirgil.*  The  very  solemnity  and  simplicity 
of  the  record,  witness  the  strength  of  his  feelings.  "  Laura,  illustri- 
ous from  her  own  virtues,  and  celebrated  through  my  verses,  was  first 
beheld  by  these  eyes  in  the  period  of  my  youthful  prime,  in  the  year 
1327,  on  the  6th  of  April,  at  the  first  hour  of  the  morning, f  in  the 
church  of  St.  Clair,  at  Avignon ;  and  in  the  same  town,  in  the  same 
month  of  April,  the  same  date,  the  6th,  and  at  the  same  hour, 
in  the  year  1348,  the  light  was  withdrawn  from  the  world,  while  I, 
alas!  was  at  Verona,  ignorant  of  my  loss.  The  afflicting  news 
reached  me  in  a  letter  from  my  friend  Luigi ;  it  found  me  at 
Parma,  on  the  morning  of  the  same  year,  the  19th  of  May.  That 

*  This  precious  volume  is  still  preserved  in  the  Ambrosian  Library,  at  Milan.  It  is 
enriched  with  vignettes  by  tlio  same  artist,  Simon  Martini,  who  painted  Laura's  portrait; 
and  lias  marginal  notes  in  the  same  handwriting  as  Peti-arcli's  memorandum,  above  quoted. 

t  According  to  the  Italian  method  of  counting  time  ;  meaning  6  o'clock,  A.  M. : — and 
whicli  was  the  same  witli  the  old  Hebrew  mode  of  dividing  time  :  the  "  tliird  Iiour  of  the 
day,''  being  Nine  A.  M. 


LAURA. 


157 


body,  so  cliaste,  so  beautiful,  was  deposited  in  tlie  cliurcli  of  the  Cor- 
deliers, on  tlie  evening  of  tlie  day  she  died.  Her  spirit,  I  doubt 
not,  is  returned  to  that  heaven  whence  it  came.  To  preserve  the 
mournful  memory  of  this  bereavement,  I  take  a  certain  bitter 
pleasure  in  writing  this  record ;  and  write  it  the  rather  in  this 
book,  which  is  often  before  my  eyes,  in  order  that  there  may  be 
nothing  henceforth  to  please  me  in  this  life,  since  my  chief  link 
with  it  being  broken,  I  may  be  reminded,  by  the  frequent  sight 
of  these  words,  and  by  the  just  estimation  of  a  transitory  existence, 
that  it  is  time  to  leave  this  Babylon;  which,  with  the  help  of 
Divine  Grace,  will  be  nowise  difficult  to  me,  from  a  manly  and  cour- 
ageous contemplation  of  the  fruitless  cares,  vain  hopes,  and  unfore- 
seen events  which  have  agitated  me  during  my  earthly  sojourn." 

His  own  dismissal  was  indeed  in  harmony  with  his  own  gracious 
life.  He  was  found  one  morning,  seated  in  his  library ;  his  head 
leaning  on  a  book  that  he  had  been  reading ;  his  body  at  rest,  and 
his  spirit  flown  to  its  Great  Giver. 

Petrarch's  poetical  temperament  enabled  him  to  sustain  the 
pang  of  Laura's  death.  She  was  lost  to  him  on  earth ;  but  he  pos- 
sessed her  still  in  heaven.  She  was  his  own,  there,  even  more 
truly,  than  she  had  been  while  here  in  the  flesh :— he  worshipped 
her  adoringly  as  ever— and  with  yet  greater  feeling  of  exclusive 
appropriation.  Her  image  became  sublimated  to  his  thought ;  and 
he  could  contemplate  it  with  a  spiritualized  love,  undistracted  by 
impassioned  wishes. 

The  verses  in  which  he  hymns  her  after  she  was  dead,  are  per- 
haps finer  than  those  he  penned  while  she  was  living.  They  are 
chastened  into  higher  aspiration,  and  more  exalted  ideality.  He 
made  the  noblest  use  of  her  loss— the  use  befitting  a  true  love 
losing  its  sole  object— by  converting  it  into  the  means  of  raising 
him  to  immortal  hope.    He  believed,  himself  to  be  in  constant 


158  LAURA. 

communion  witli  lier  spirit ,  lie  fancied  lier  visibly  beside  liim,  con- 
soling his  regrets,  soothing  his  sorrow,  illumining  the  dark  and  rest- 
less hours  of  night  by  her  presence,  appearing  to  his  sight,  and 
pointing  heavenward  in  token  that  there  they  should  meet  to  part 
no  more.    It  is  this  elevated  tone  of  feeling  in  her  lover's  writing, 
which  bears  witness  to  the  purifying  influence  that  Laura  exercised 
over  his  mind.    Had  she  been  any  but  the  noble  creature  she  was, 
the  poet's  affection  could  never  have  been  so  cc.nstant,  and  so  re- 
fined in  character.    Had  she  been  the  mere  adroit  captivator  some- 
times imagined,  she  could  never  have  exercised  this  posthumous 
ascendency  over  Petrarch's  thoughts.    But  he  himself  in  his  sonnets, 
takes  occasion  to  bless  the  virtuous  firmness  which  turned  his 
course  to  a  happier  shore,  and  preserved  him  from  perishing.  And 
not  merely  immediately  upon  his  loss,  was  he  thus  impressed  by 
her  guardian  excellence  ;  but  after  his  heart  had  been  a  widower 
twenty  years,  he  describes  Laura  appearing  to  him,  as  in  a  haze  of 
beatified  glory,  assuring  him  how  welcome  death  is  to  those  who 
are  prepared:  and  telling  him,  that  when  she  herself  died,  she  felt 
no  sadness,  save  pity  for  him.    He  represents  himself  as  beseech- 
ing her  to  say  whether  she  ever  loved  him ;  and  her  answering 
evasively,  that  although  gratified  by  his  love,  she  deemed  it  right 
to  repress  his  warmth  by  the  coldness  of  her  manner ;  but  that 
when  she  saw  him  dejected  and  unhappy,  she  looked  consolingly, 
and  gave  him  words  of  kindness.    "  It  was  by  this  alternate  rigour 
and  gentleness,"  he  makes  her  say,  "  that  I  have  led  thee — some- 
times happy,  sometimes  unhappy  ;  often,  it  is  true,  weary,  yet  still 
I  have  led  thee  whither  there  is  no  more  peril,  and  I  have  thus 
saved  us  both.    There  has  been  a  sympathy  between  us,  little 
differing,  except  in  this :  that  thine  was  proclaimed  to  the  whole 
world,  and  mine  was  kept  concealed.    But  grief  is  not  the  less  for 
being  endured  in  silence;  nor  is  it  the  more  for  being  loud  in 
lament." 


LAURA. 


159 


We  are  bound  to  accept  the  moral  portrait  of  Laura  as  drawn 
by  tlie  hand  of  Petrarcli ;  for  tliougli  there  may  be  the  proverbial 
extravagance  of  the  lover,  and  the  assumed  hyperbole  of  the  poet 
in  this  praise,  yet  there  is  much  more  real  truth  in  the  exagger- 
ations of  both  lover  and  poet  than  conventional  judges  generally 
believe.  There  is  a  truth  in  the  high  colouring  of  both  love  and 
poetry  as  far  superior  to  the  mere  verbal  truth  of  strict  and  bare 
description,  as  there  is  in  a  portrait,  painted  by  Titian,  beyond 
that  of  a  photographed  likeness.  The  mellowing,  and  idealizing 
in  high  art,  gives  a  truer  embodiment  of  the  life,  than  the  hard 
rectilinear  precision  of  the  mechanically  stamped  similitude. 

The  personal  portrait  of  Laura  may  also  be  gathered  from  her 
poet-lover's  verses,  as  well  as  her  moral  picture ;  and  with  the  same 
conviction  of  its  essential  fidelity  in  the  midst  of  heightening  fancy. 
The  eye  of  affection  and  of  poesy  sees  the  best  aspect  of  the 
beloved  one,  it  is  true ;  but  the  eyes  of  the  world  should  be  glad 
to  behold  that  best,  and  should  avail  themselves  of  that  keener 
sight  lent  them  by  the  lover  and  the  poet,  when  depicting  the 
object  of  their  admiration.  And  it  is  curious,  too,  that  from  one 
little  negative  circumstance,  we  may  believe  that  Petrarch  adhered 
to  the  very  letter  as  well  as  the  spirit  of  Laura's  perfections  ;  since 
he  is  silent  with  respect  to  one  feature  of  her  face,  while  eloquently 
descanting  upon  all  the  others.  He  avoids  describing  her  nose  : 
therefore  it  is  probable  that  it  was  not  remarkable  for  beauty ; 
and  his  inferred  candour  on  this  point — for  it  amounts  to  a  tacit 
evidence — may  be  taken  as  a  proof,  that  he  did  not  flatter  her  in 
any  of  the  others.  An  Italian  dissertator  alledges  that  Laura  had 
a  nose,  the  style  of  which  he  designates  by  the  word  "  scavezzo  ;  " 
and  adds,  that  this  is  considered  a  beauty  in  France,  implying 
thereby  that  she  had  what  the  French  call  a  "  nez  retrousse.^'  In 
English,  there  is  no  term  more  softened  for  this  kind  of  nose — 


1.60 


L  A  UK  A 


very  bewitcliing,  nevertheless,  to  some  tastes — tlian  a  "snub-nose," 
or  a  "  turn-up-nose."  We  all  know  wliat  havoc  Marmontel's  Rox- 
alane,  witli  her  "  petit  nez  retroussee,"  committed  in  the  heart  of 
the  Sultan  of  the  Indies.  The  word  "  scavezzo "  [indented]  cer- 
tainly conveys  the  idea  of  that  kind  of  nose,  which  is  in  the  por- 
trait considered  to  be  the  most  authentic  of  Laura. 

The  written  picture  of  her,  which  may  be  collectively  obtained 
from  the  descriptions  of  Laura  dispersed  through  Petrarch's  poems, 
shows  her  to  have  had  eyes  both  brilliant  and  tender ;  and  al- 
though he  does  not  precisely  state  their  colour,  yet  his  allusions  to 
sapphire  in  his  figurative  exjjressions,  indicates  them  to  be  blue. 
Her  exquisitively-cut  mouth  was  composed  of  pearls  set  amid  roses. 
Her  countenance  was  more  round  than  oval ;  her  eyebrows  were 
dark,  while  her  hair  was  pale  gold  ;  her  skin  was  of  dazzlmg  fair- 
ness ;  her  complexion  clear  and  transparent,  with  a  delicate  yet 
brilliant  colour  ;  her  shape  symmetrical,  and  graceful :  her  shoulders, 
neck,  hands,  and  feet  beautifully  moulded  and  proportioned ;  her 
carriage  noble  and  majestic ;  her  looks  full  of  gentleness,  sweet 
cheerfulness,  and  sincerity ;  and  a  celestial  air  pervaded  her  whole 
appearance.  The  exj^ression  of  her  countenance  was  its  charm ; 
and  the  tone  of  her  voice  was  enchantingly  soft  and  melodious. 

Some  biographers  have  asserted  that  Laura  possessed  the  poet- 
ical faculty, — that  she  wrote  verses  ;  and  that  she  took  her  place 
among  those  ladies  of  her  native  land  who  composed  "  The  Court 
of  Love."  It  is  possible  that  these  tribunals,  where  beauty  pre- 
sided, where  gallantry  reigned,  and  where  various  nice  questions  of 
Love  and  Wit  were  discussed,  counted  a  lady  of  the  house  of  Sade 
among  its  members ;  but  it  is  very  unlikely  that  if  Laura  de  Sade 
had  been  this  lady,  Petrarch  would  have  failed  to  notify  such  a 
circumstance.  Llad  she  figured  in  "  The  Court  of  Love,"  and  cer- 
tainly had  she  possessed  the  gift  of  poetry,  her  poet-lover  would 


LAURA. 


161 


not  liave  omitted  to  enumerate  tliese  distinctions  when  proclaim- 
ing her  merits.  Since  her  name  alone  supplied  him  with  such 
multiplied  ingenuity  of  allusion,  it  is  not  likely  that  he  would  have 
failed  to  seize  upon  so  fruitful,  and  so  congenial  a  theme  of  gratu- 
lation.  We  see  how  beautifully  he  could  assemble  her  many  per- 
fections in  one  lovely  poem,  when  we  read  that  which  Leigh  Hunt 
has  so  finely  translated  for  us  ;  and  which  he  calls,  "  Petrarch's  con- 
templations of  death  in  the  bower  of  Laura." 

"  Clear,  fresh,  and  dulcet  streams, 
Which  the  fair  shape  who  seems 
To  me  sole  woman,  haunted  at  noon-tide ; 
Fair  bough,  so  gently  fit, 
(I  sigh  to  think  of  it) 
Which  lent  a  pillar  to  her  lovely  side  ; 
And  turf  and  flowers  bright-eyed, 
O'er  which  her  folded  gown 
Flow'd  like  an  angel's  down  ; 
And  you,  0  holy  air  and  hush'd. 
Where  first  my  heart  at  her  sweet  glances  gush'd ; 
Give  ear,  give  ear  with  one  consenting, 
To  my  last  words,  my  last,  and  my  lamenting. 

If  'tis  my  fate  below, 

And  heaven  will  have  it  so, 

That  lore  must  close  these  dying  eyes  in  tears. 

May  my  poor  dust  be  laid 

In  middle  of  your  shade. 

While  my  soul  naked  mounts  to  its  own  spheres, 
The  thought  would  calm  my  fears. 
When  taking  out  of  breath 
The  doubtful  step  of  death  ; 
For  never  could  my  spirit  find 
A  stiller  port  after  the  stormy  wind  ; 
Nor  in  more  calm,  abstracted  bourne, 
Slip  from  my  travail'd  flesh,  and  from  my  bones  outworn. 

Perhaps,  some  future  hour. 
To  her  accustom'd  bower 

Might  come  the  untam'd,  and  yet  the  gentle  she ; 

21 


1.62 


LAURA. 


And  where  she  saw  me  first 
Might  turn  with  eyes  athirst 
And  kinder  joy  to  look  again  for  me  ; 
Then,  Oh  the  charity  ! 
Seeing  amidst  the  stones 
The  earth  that  held  my  hones, 
A  sigh  for  very  love  at  last 
Might  ask  of  heaven  to  pardon  me  the  past : 
And  heaven  itself  could  not  say  nay, 
As  with  her  gentle  veil  she  wiped  the  tears  away. 

How  well  I  call  to  mind, 

When  from  those  boughs  the  wind 

Shook  down  upon  her  bosom  flower  on  flower ; 

And  there  she  sat  meek-eyed. 

In  midst  of  all  that  pride. 

Sprinkled  and  blushing  through  an  amorous  shower. 
Some  to  her  hair  paid  dower, 
And  seemed  to  dress  the  curls 
Queen-like,  with  gold  and  pearls  : 
Some,  snowing,  on  her  drapery  stopp'd. 
Some  on  the  earth,  some  on  the  water  dropped  ; 
While  others  fluttering  from  above, 
Seem'd  wheeling  round  in  pomp,  and  saying,  "  Here  reigns  Love." 

How  often  then  I  said. 
Inward,  and  fiU'd  with  dread, 
"  Doubtless  this  creature  came  from  Paradise  !" 
For  at  her  look  the  while, 
Her  voice,  and  her  sweet  smile, 
And  heavenly  air,  truth  parted  from  mine  eyes  ; 
So  that  with  long-drawn  sighs, 
I  said,  as  far  from  men, 
"  How  came  I  here,  and  when  ?  " 
I  had  forgotten ;  and  alas  ! 
Fancied  myself  in  heaven,  not  where  I  waa 
And  from  that  time  till  this,  I  bear 
Such  love  for  the  green  bower,  I  cannot  rest  elsewhere." 


Tradition  intimates  tliat  the  man  who  possessed  the  wedded 
faith  and  affection  of  Laura,  scarcely  deserved  his  treasure ;  for 


LAURA. 


there  are  Mnts  that  his  temper  was  arbitrary  and  capricious ;  and 
it  is  related,  that  he  was  so  little  affected  by  the  loss  of  her  who 
had  brought  him  eleven  children,  that  he  married  again  within 
eiffht  months  of  her  death.    Traditional  accounts  relative  to  such 

o 

points  as  these  are  difficult  of  trust,— or  rather,  of  decisive  con- 
struction. That  the  husband's  temper  could  be  wayward,  seems 
hardly  likely,  when  he  gave  such  staid  sanction, — as  he  did  by 
tacit  consent  and  approval — to  the  world-known  admiration  of  the 
poet  for  his  wife.  A  man  subject  to  caprice  or  tyranny  would,  at 
some  time  or  other,  have  made  protest  against  this  open  assertion 
of  a  kind  of  property  in  her  whom  he  would  have  considered  ex- 
clusively his — ^his  goods,  his  chattels, — for  this  is  the  light  in  which 
men  of  arbitrary  temper  regard  theii'  wives.  "With  respect  to  the 
other  circumstance, — Hugo  de  Sade's  marrying  again,  so  soon  after 
losing  Laura, — that  can  only  be  judged  according  to  the  character 
of  the  man.  A  husband  who  is  of  a  social  and  sympathetic  dispo- 
sition, cannot  endure  the  void  left  in  his  existence  by  such  a  be- 
reavement ;  and,  the  more  eagerly  if  he  have  been  extremely  hap- 
py with  his  first  wife,  will  he  endeavour  to  supply  her  place  by 
his  side,  for  the  remainder  of  his  days.  These  are  completely  mat- 
ters of  individual  feeling  and  temperament.  The  chance  is,  how- 
ever, that  the  man  who  made  an  unfortunate  selection  in  his  first 
wife,  would  deliberate  in  risking  a  second  :  it  is  reasonable,  there- 
fore, to  conclude,  that  Hugo  de  Sade  was  both  a  worthy,  and  a 
happy  husband ;  and  his  early  re-marriage  was  a  tacit  proof  of  this, 
as  well  as  a  testimony  to  the  mother  of  his  eleven  children. 

Two  centuries  after  Laura  had  been  laid  in  her  grave,  some  of 

*  •  •  •  •  • 

the  chief  church  dignitaries  at  Avignon,  occupied  m  antiquarian 
research,  obtained  permission  to  have  her  tomb  opened.  The 
interest  in  Laura  had  been  made  universal  and  enduring  by  her 
Laureate:  his  might  had  rescued  her  from  what  Sir  Thomas 


164 


L  A  U  E  A. 


Browne  calls,  "  the  imq[uity  of  oblivion,"  wliicli,lLe  says,  "scatterett 
her  l)oppy  and  deals  with  the  memory  of  men  without  distinction 
to  merit  of  j)erpetuity."  Petrarch's  poetry  had  imbued  Laura's 
name  with  an  undying  charm,  that  sufficed  to  render  her  very  dust 
precious.  On  raising  a  large  stone  bearing  no  inscription,  but 
having  two  escutcheons  somewhat  effaced  by  time,  surmounted  by 
a  rose,  a  few  small  bones  were  found,  near  to  which  lay  a  leaden 
casket  fastened  with  wire.  This  box  contained  a  parchment  folded 
and  sealed  with  green  wax,  with  a  medal  in  bronze,  representing  a 
female  figure  veiling  her  bosom,  encircled  by  the  initial  inscrip- 
tion, M.  L.  M.  J.,  which  has  been  conjecturally  interpreted  to  stand 
for  Madonna  Laura  morta  'jace.  On  the  parchment  was  an 
Italian  sonnet,  signed  with  the  name  of  Petrarch ;  but  which, 
judging  from  its  mediocrity,  is  supposed  not  to  have  been  his,  but 
l^ossibly  written  by  one  of  his  friends,  perhaps  the  very  Luigi,  who, 
according  to  the  memorandum  in  Petrarch's  Virgil,  conveyed  the 
news  of  Laura's  death  to  her  lover.  This  exhumed  discovery  ex- 
cited much  attention.  Francis  the  First,  passing  through  Avignon 
in  the  autumn  of  1533,  desired  to  see  the  tomb  of  Laura.  He 
read  the  sonnet ;  and  when  he  replaced  it  in  the  casket,  he  added 
an  epitaph  of  his  own  composition.  This  tribute  of  homage  from  a 
prince  of  such  tasteful  and  chivalrous  accomplishment  as  Francis 
the  First,  was  a  graceful  offering  paid  by  royalty  at  the  shrine  of 
beauty  ;  and  the  quaint  old  French  verses  themselves  are  so  good, 
as  to  do  credit  to  both  kingly  author,  and  queenly  lady. 

"  En  petit  lieu  compris,  vous  pouvez  voir 
Ce  qui  comprend  beaucoup  par  renommee , 
Plume,  labeur,  la  langue  et  le  savoir, 
Furent  vaincu  par  I'amant  de  I'aimee 
0  gentille  ame  !  6tant  tant  estimee, 
Qui  te  pourra  louer  qu'  en  se  taisant  ? 
Car  la  parole  est  toujoui'S  reprimee 
Quand  le  sujet  surmonte  le  disant." 


LAURA.  165 

["  In  small  space  compris'd  you  here  may  behold,  ■  • 

That  which  compriseth  a  world  of  renown  ; 
Pen,  labour,  and  knowledge,  a  language  of  gold. 
The  beloved  one's  lover  attained  as  a  crown. 
0  gentle-sweet  soul !  so  honour'd  already ; 
Who,  but  by  silence,  may  thy  praises  record  ? 
For  words  must  be  always  found  lame  and  unready, 
When  the  subject  of  praise  exceedeth  all  word."] 

Francis  gave  orders  that  a  mausoleum  should  be  erected  for  Laura's 
remains,  and  he  contributed  the  sum  of  a  thousand  crowns  tow  ards 
defraying  its  cost.  The  architect  was  selected  for  the  work,  and 
the  motto  was  chosen,  which  was  to  be  graven  thereon :—"  Victrix 
casta  fides :"  but  this  monument  was  never  executed,  although  the 
poet  Clement  Marot,  and  others,  ascribed  to  the  monarch  the 
credit  of  its  intention.  Since  the  discovery  of  Laura's  tomb,  travel- 
lers have  not  failed  to  visit  it,  and  examine  the  casket,  medal, 
sonnet,  and  epitaph  ;  but  all  these  memorials  have  now  disap- 
peared. 

Towards  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century,  a  certain 
friar  Bassi,  sub-sacristan  in  the  church  of  the  Cordeliers,  sold  the 
casket  and  medal  to  some  English  visitors.  This  ridiculous  passion 
for  relics  is  a  terribly  Anglican  failing,  and  leads  to  the  most 
degradingly  fatuous  conduct.  The  way  in  which  scraps  of  ropes, 
used  for  hanging  notorious  felons ;  slips  of  bushes,  and  vials  of 
water  from  ponds,  where  murderers  have  hidden  their  victims' 
bodies  ;  and  similar  revolting  articles,  have  been  eagerly  bought 
up  by  relic-fanciers,  bitten  with  this  mania,  is  almost  incredible  to 
saner  people.  These  rabid  "  snappers-up  of  ill-considered  trifles  " 
will  hack  with  their  pen-knives  some  carved  wooden  effigy,  tiU  it 
shall  be  a  heap  of  splinters,  or  chip  out  bits  from  some  antique 
marble,  till  it  be  a  shapeless  mass :— (the  Sphinx  will  soon  be  dis- 
persed, with  the  present  fashion  of  the  English  to  winter  at  Cairo) 


166 


LAURA. 


— tliey  will  hoard  up  morsels  of  dismembered  and  disconnected 
trash,  with  stolid  veneration  ;  yet  laugh  at  Chaucer's  Pardoner 
with  his  "glass  full  of  pigges'  bones ;"— and  at  Boccaccio's  friar, 
with  his  "  feather  of  the  Phoenix  that  came  out  of  the  Ark,"  while 
sneering  at  "  Popish  trinkets,  and  idol-worship."  These  gentry 
have  so  obtuse  a  perception  of  the  real  interest  seated  in  relics,  and 
so  craving  a  maw  to  possess  the  mere  things  themselves,  that  a 
handsome  sum  was  oJffered  to  the  town  of  Stratford-upon-Avon  for 
the  house  in  which  Shakespeare  was  born,  with  a  view  to  trans- 
porting it  abroad  !  As  if  that  house  could  have  any  charm  carted 
away  from  the  sweet  English  village  in  which  the  poet  of  poets 
first  drew  breath.  Pulled  down,  carried  oflP,  put  up  again  else- 
where, it  becomes  no  better  than  a  mere  handful  of  bricks  and 
mortar. 

The  leaden  casket  and  bronze  medal  picked  out  of  Laura's 
grave,  and  transferred  to  some  cabinet  of  curiosities,  ticketed  and 
labelled,  to  be  stared  at  by  idle  casual  eyes,  unassociated,  unhal- 
lowed by  time  and  place,  are  but  poor  baubles.  After  all,  the 
best  relics  are  those  which  are  imperishably  enshrined  within  the 
record  of  the  poet's  verse,  or  the  deeds  of  good,  great,  and  glorious 
people.  A  single  line  of  poetry  immortalizing  a  beautiful  speech, 
or  a  heroic  act,  forms  a  truer  memorial,  than  an  actual  portion  of 
a  person.  A  rib-bone  of  Milton,  which  we  have  often  reverentially 
gazed  at — and  which  may  have  lain  close  against  the  poet's  heart, 
when  it  throbbed  with  the  conception  of  that  great  epic,  recording 
the  first  human-moulded  rib,  and  its  long  train  of  consequent 
wonders — never  stirred  our  soul  with  one  tithe  of  the  emotion  that 
the  poet's  own  lines  have  excited.  How  dull  and  adust,  how 
devoid  of  interest  and  meaning  that  small  slender  ossicle  looked, 
compared  with  the  vital  wordB : — 


LAURA. 


167 


"  Who  stooping,  opened  my  left  side,  and  took  -  '     ■,  ■ 

From  thence  a  rib,  with  cordial  spirits  warm,  -  . 

And  life-blood  streaming  fresh  ;  wide  was  the  wound 
But  suddenly  with  flesh  fiU'd  up  and  heal'd : 
The  rib  he  form'd  and  fashion'd  with  his  hands ; 
Under  his  forming  hands  a  creature  grew, 
Man-like,  but  different  sex ;  so  lovely  fair. 
That  what  seem'd  fair  in  all  the  world,  seem'd  now 
Mean,  or  in  her  summ'd  up,  in  her  contain'd. 
And  in  her  looks;  which  from  that  time  infus'd  , 
Sweetness  into  my  heart  unfelt  before. 

And  into  all  things  from  her  air  inspir'd  '      .  ' 

The  spirit  of  love  and  amorous  delight."  •  " 

Petrarcli's  verse  is  tlie  sumptuous  reliquary  wliere  Laura's 
Leauty  is  eternally  embalmed  in  unfading  lustre.  In  her  life-time 
his  poems  showed  the  world  what  a  woman  adorned  it : — after  her 
death — and  to  all  time,  they  will  show  the  world  what  a  creature 
it  once  contained.  And  not  only  in  the  poet's  productions,  hut  in 
himself,  he  enhanced  Laura's  honour ;  for  he  was  so  noble  a  man, 
morally  as  well  as  intellectually,  that  it  reflects  credit  on  the 
woman  who  was  beloved  by  such  a  being.  His  friendship  for 
Boccaccio,  witnesses  his  high  and  generous  sentiment.  The  follow- 
ing extract  from  one  of  Petrarch's  letters  to  his  brother-writer,  is 
a  beautiful  instance  of  manly  feeling : — "  Reflect  whether  you 
cannot,  as  I  have  long  wished,  pass  the  remainder  of  your  days 
with  me.  As  to  your  debt  to  me,  I  do  not  know  of  it,  nor  under- 
tands  this  foolish  scruple  of  conscience.  You  owe  me  nothing, 
except  love  ;  nor  that,  since  each  day  you  pay  me ;  except,  indeed, 
that  receiving  continually  from  me,  you  still  continue  to  owe.  You 
complain  of  poverty ;  I  will  not  bring  forward  the  usual  conso- 
lation, nor  alledge  the  examples  of  illustrious  men,  for  you  know 
them  already.  I  applaud  you  for  having  preferred  poverty  com- 
bined with  independence,  to  the  riches  and  slavery  that  were 
offered  you ;  but  I  do  not  praise  you  for  refusing  the  solicitations 


168 


LAURA. 


of  a  friend.  I  am  not  able  to  enricli  you ;  if  I  were,  I  should  use 
neither  words  nor  pen,  but  speak  to  you  in  deeds.  But  wliat  is 
sufficient  for  one,  is  enough  for  two  :  one  bouse  may  surely  suffice 
for  those  who  have  but  one  heart.  Your  disinclination  to  come 
injures  me  ;  and  it  is  more  injurious  if  you  doubt  my  sincerity." 

How  finely  does  Petrarch's  warmth  of  affection  for  Boccaccio,  and 
his  admiration  for  that  writer's  talent,  refute  the  ignorant  preju- 
dices of  the  common  herd,  res|)ecting  the  jealousies  of  men  of  letters 
towards  each  other.  Boccaccio  made  a  beautiful  manuscript  copy 
of  Dante  with  his  own  hand,  gorgeously  illuminated,  as  a  present 
for  Petrarch  ;  while  Petrarch  was  so  great  an  admirer  of  Boccac- 
cio's story  of  Griselda,  that  he  translated  it  into  Latin  for  those 
who  could  not  read  it  in  Italian ;  and  took  pleasure  in  frequently 
reading  it  himself ;  and  committed  it  to  memory,  that  he  might 
relate  it  to  his  friends.  He  evidently  repeated  it  to  Chaucer ;  who, 
in  his  introduction  to  his  own  version  of  the  Tale  (the  Clerk's), 
says  that  he  "  learned  it  at  Padua  of  a  worthy  clerk,"  and  proceeds 
to  explain  that: — 

Fraunceis  Petrarke,  the  laurcat  poete, 

Hight  tins  ilke  clerke,  whose  Retlioricke  sweet 

Enlumlned  all  Itaille  of  poetrie." 

J^ot  only  have  we  this  link  of  association  between  Petrarch  and 
■  the  father  of  English  poetry ;  but  there  is  one  slender  thread  that 
brings  him  together  with  Shakespeai-e  in  our  fancy.  Among  the 
places  he  visited,  when  wandering  over  Europe,  in  the  endeavour 
to  free  himself  from  the  thraldom  in  which  his  senses  were  held 
when  perpetually  within  sight  and  reach  of  Laura's  beauty,  while 
still  unable  to  subdue  the  more  passionate  impulses  of  his  affection, 
Petrarch  rambled  to  the  Forest  of  Ardennes  /  and  here  we  may 
imagine  him  vying  with  Orlando  and  Silvius  in  knowledge  of 
"  the  wounds  invisible  that  love's  keen  arrows  make  ;  "  or,  bantered 


LAURA. 


169 


by  Eosalind  for  "being  "  a  fool,  and  turned  into  tlio  extremity  of 
love." 

There  existed  in  Florence,  in  tlie  possession  of  tlie  Peruzzi 
family,  a  small  bas-relief  in  white  marble,  representing  Petrarch 
and  Laura,  behind  which  there  were  inscribed  these  words :  "  Simon 
de  Senis  me  fecit,  sub  anno  dom:  MCCCXLIII,"  This  piece  of 
sculpture  is  about  eight  lines  thick,  six  inches  high,  and  each  of 
the  two  portraits  measures  about  four  inches  and  a  half.  It  was 
brought  to  Paris  by  Signor  Vincenzo  Peruzzi  in  1820,  and  he  pub- 
lished a  pamphlet,  avouching  its  genuineness. 

He  stated  how  the  marble  bas  relief  came  into  the  possession  of 
his  ancestors ;  and  mentioned  that  the  figure  of  Laura  was  more 
Avorn  than  the  other,  from  its  having  been  so  frequently  kissed 
by  enthusiastic  beholders. 

Petrarch's  Laura  is  dear  to  the  memory  of  men,  for  her  gentle 
benignity  towards  a  lover  who  could  not  refrain  from  adoring  her 
excelling  beauty,  although  it  could  not  be  lawfully  his  ;  and  she 
will  ever  be  held  dear  among  women,  for  maintaining  her  sex's 
purity  and  dignity,  while  using  her  power  over  her  lover  in  in- 
fluencing him  to  good  and  high  aims.  As  the  Italian  Poet's  ideal 
of  womanly  excellence,  Laura  must  ever  be 

"  Dear  for  her  reputation  through  the  world." 


22 


VALEN^TOE  DE  MILA]^. 


Valentiista  Visconti,  otherwise  known  as  Valentine  de  Milan,  was 
a  beautiful  instance  of  w^omanly  jDurity  and  virtue,  preserved  amid 
tlie  most  vicious  environments.  Her  girlhood  in  Italy,  and  her 
wifehood  in  France,  were  passed  among  scenes  of  grossness  and 
ferocity  incredible  to  us,  who  live  in  more  civilized  times.  Her 
fether,  Giovanni  Galeazzo  Visconti,  was  the  first  of  his  house  who 
held  the  title  of  Duke  of  Milan.  In  his  earlier  years,  he  bore  some 
resemblance  to  Shakespeare's  "Duke  of  Milan,"— Prospero— for 
Giovanni  Galeazzo  was  addicted  to  study,  and 

"  Neglected  worldly  ends,  all  dedicate 
To  closeness,  and  the  bettering  of  his  mind." 

But  subsequently  he  gave  himself  up  to  far  other  pursuits ; 
exchanging  the  tranquil  delights  of  learning  for  the  turmoils  and 
cruelties  of  ambition. 

From  infancy,  he  showed  so  much  perspicacity,  so  much  dis- 
position for  silence,  and  so  precocious  a  judgment,  that  it  was  long 
believed  so  clever  a  child  would  not  live  to  reach  manhood.  The 
taste  for  knowledge,  which  he  at  such  tender  age  had  evinced,  did 
not  forsake  him  to  the  end  of  life ;  but  it  remained  a  taste,  and 
was  no  longer  an  avocation,  when  the  thirst  for  rule  seized  him. 
In  youth,  the  pleasures  of  study  rendered  him  insensible  to  the 


172  VALENTINE    DE    M  ILAN.  • 

attractions  of  gaming  and  dissipation ;  lie  took  no  interest  in  the 
humours  of  court-jesters,  or  the  graver  discussions  of  state  busi- 
ness, giving  all  the  time  he  might  have  spent  thus,  to  his  favourite 
scholarly  pursuits.  When  compelled  to  attend  to  affairs,  he  con- 
ducted them  rather  as  a  student,  than  as  a  man  of  business.  He 
introduced  a  method  and  care  unknown  till  then,  into  the  compo- 
sition of  manifestos  and  state  papers.  He  caused  all  orders  and 
instructions — even  to  the  most  minute — to  be  written  out ;  and  the 
archives  of  Milan  contain  more  ample  materials  relative  to  his 
administration,  than  to  that  of  any  other  prince.  He  had  taste  to 
appreciate  the  high  merit  of  Petrarch ;  whom  he  induced  to  come 
to  Milan,  and  sojourn  at  his  court.  It  was  at  Petrarch's  suggestion 
that  Galeazzo  Visconti  founded  the  university  of  Pavia.  He  de- 
serves notable  memory,  too,  for  having  been  the  beginner  of 
Milan  Cathedral.  Soon  after  his  being  crowned  Duke  of  Milan,  he 
commenced  building  that  superb  edifice ;  which  rears  its  white 
splendour,  a  monument  of  its  founder's  taste  in  Art,  whatever  may 
have  been  his  perplexingly  opposed  moral  qualities. 

During  his  father's  lifetime,  he  had  served  in  the  army  ;  but 
on  his  father's  death,  in  ISYS,  he  succeeded  to  the  sovereignty,  and 
renounced  arms  thenceforth,  in  his  own  person.  For  although  after 
that  period,  he  was  almost  always  at  war,  he  went  no  longer  into 
battle;  leaving  to  his  commanders  the  care  of  its  conduct.  In 
1360,  his  father  had  united  him  in  marriage  with  Isabelle  de  Va- 
lois,  daughter  to  Jean,  king  of  France ;  who,  from  distress  for 
money,  had  granted  his  daughter's  hand  in  recompense  for  a  timely 
subsidy.  From  this  union  sprang  Yalentina ;  and  one  son,  who 
died.  After  his  first  wife's  death,  Giovanni  Galeazzo  Visconti  mar- 
ried, in  1380,  his  cousin  Caterina,  daughter  of  Barnabo  Visconti. 
From  the  time  of  succeeding  to  his  father's  dignity,  Giovanni  Ga- 
leazzo showed  that  his  ambition  would  be  restrained  by  neither 


VALENTINE    DE  MILAN 


1V3 


ties  of  kiuclred,  nor  feelings  of  lionour,  and  "by  no  compacts  or 
treaties,  however  solemnly  made.  He  seemed  to  have  wliolly 
changed  character;  and,  from  a  quiet  recluse  scholar,  to  have 
become  a  violent,  rapacious,  and  crafty  despot.  The  town  ot 
Asti  having  revolted  against  his  brother-in-law,  Secondotto,  Mar- 
quis of  Montferrat,  and  the  latter  having  recourse  to  him  for  suc- 
cour, Giovanni  Galeazzo  caused  the  town  to  be  delivered  to  him  as 
mediator,  retaining  the  sovereignty  for  himself  When,  too,  the 
ambitious  spirit  of  Barnabo  Visconti,  his  uncle,  gave  him  fears  that 
he  might  become  the  victim  of  his  relation's  plots,  he  determined 
to  circumvent  possibly  intended  treason  by  stratagem  and  murder. 
He  began  by  deceiving  Barnabo  with  a  false  assumption  of  extreme 
devotion.  He  passed  his  time  in  churches  ;  a  rosary  in  his  hands, 
kneeling  in  prayer  before  the  images  of  the  saints,  or  surrounded 
by  friars  and  priests.  At  the  same  time,  he  made  no  secret  of 
a  pusillanimity,  which  formed  part  of  his  character ;  he  redoubled 
his  guards,  fortified  his  castles,  and  expressed  fears  that  seemed  in- 
consistent with  any  intention  of  raising  an  insurrection  himself. 
From  this  aspect  of  passiveness  he  suddenly  issued,  by  causing  his 
uncle  (and  father-in-law)  to  be  arrested  at  the  gates  of  Milan,  May, 
1385  ;  and  by  afterwards  poisoning  him. 

It  was  in  a  paternal  household  thus  curiously  compounded  of 
contrasted  elements, — ^where  studious  pursuits  and  ambitious  pro- 
jects, elegant  learning  and  blackest  perfidy,  held  mingled  place, — 
that  Valentina  Visconti  acquired  her  first  lessons  in  life's  strange 
history.  She  seems  to  have  learned  from  them  a  power  of  looking 
on  at  scenes  of  vice  and  violence  without  stain  to  her  own  virtue 
and  gentleness ;  and  of  abiding  by  conscious  goodness  as  a  refuge 
against  calumny  and  injustice. 

The  different  wars  in  which  her  father  was  incessantly  engaged 
came  to  a  kind  of  temporary  lull  at  one  time  ;  and  his  various  as- 


174  VALENTINE    DE  MILAN. 

sailants  caused  liim  to  consent,  1392,  to  a  general  peace.  It  was 
at  tliis  period,  that  an  alliance  was  concluded  between  Ms  daughter 
Valentina,  and  Louis,  Duke  of  Orleans,  brother  to  Charles  VI.,  king 
of  France.  Dowered  with  the  province  of  Asti,  and  with  large 
sums  of  money  as  her  marriage-portion,  she  espoused  this  royal 
bridegroom.  The  Prince,  her  husband,  was  one  of  the  most  pro- 
fligate and  factious  among  the  profligate  and  factious  nobles  who 
divided  France  into  party  feuds  during  that  unhappy  reign.  The 
malady  of  the  king  afforded  pretext  to  the  leaders  of  all  the  con- 
tending factions,  for  seeking  appointment  to  govern  the  kingdom 
as  regent  for  a  monarch  not  capable  of  sway.  His  luxurious 
queen,  IsabeUe,  or  Isabeau,  of  Bavaria,  his  licentious  brother,  Louis 
of  Orleans,  the  turbulent  Duke  of  Burgundy,  and  the  aspiring  Count 
of  Armagnac,  were  each  restless  in  striving  to  make  the  king's 
mental  disease  a  step  to  theii'  own  adoption  of  regal  power. 

Yalentma's  husband,  Louis,  was  leagued  with  the  queen,  both 
in  policy  and  profligacy.  No  considerations  of  honour  towards  his 
king  and  brother,  acted  as  a  restraint  upon  the  dissolute  duke ; 
and  no  sentiments  of  wifely  duty  or  womanly  self-respect  deterred 
the  abandoned  Isabeau  from  lending  herself  wholly  to  the  ambi- 
tious views  and  vicious  inclinations  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans.  Her 
story,  itself,  is  a  romance  of  sinfulness.  Young  and  beautiful,  her 
hand  was  sought  by  Charles  VI.,  who  had  heard  extravagant  re- 
ports of  her  charms.  Under  pretence  of  performing  a  pilgrimage, 
she  came  to  Amiens,  where  the  young  king  was  ;  succeeded  in  fas- 
cinating him  at  the  first  interview,  and  obtained  that  ascendancy 
over  his  weak  intellect,  which  enabled  her  ever  after  to  sway  him 
at  her  will.  Her  tastes  were  luxurious  and  expensive ;  and  Bran- 
tome,  remarks  that  she  was  the  first  queen  who  introduced  into 
France  that  frantic  passion  for  extravagant  luxury,  in  which  wo- 
men of  the  court  have  since  so  unlimitedly  indulged.    The  entry 


VALENTINE    DE  MILAN. 


175 


of  the  young  king  and  queen  into  Paris,  is  described  by  historians 
with  curious  detail ;  and  the  festivities  in  celebration  of  the  royal 
nuptials,  were  of  unprecedented  magnificence.  They  merged  into 
a  kind  of  nocturnal  Saturnalia,  where  all  the  court  were  masked ; 
and  the  "  Chronique  de  St.  Denis "  records  that,  under  favour  of 
the  mask,  there  was  not  a  person  who  did  not  abandon  him  or  her- 
self to  the  extreme  of  licence  and  scandal.  It  was  believed  that, 
on  this  very  occasion,  began  the  criminal  familiarity  which  ex- 
isted between  the  queen  and  the  Duke  of  Orleans,' — so  early  did 
Isabeau  take  advantage  of  her  husband's  weak  intellect,  to  plunge 
into  the  most  wanton  disorder  and  disloyalty.  She  suffered  her 
talents  and  beauty  to  act  as  means  of  enhancing  the  disturbances 
which  racked  France  with  faction,  and  menaced  it  with  foreign  in- 
vasion ;  while  indulging  unscrupulously  in  whatever  evil  passions 
her  unbounded  love  of  magnificence  and  enjoyment  led  to. 

Such  was  the  woman  whom  Valentina  found  in  scarce-concealed 
commerce  with  her  libertine  husband,  Louis,  Duke  of  Orleans.  But 
instead  of  torturing  herself  with  jealousy,  or  debasing  herself  by  re- 
proaches, she  took  refuge  from  the  pain  inflicted  by  the  guilty  pair, 
in  attempts  to  soothe  the  afllicted  condition  of  him  who  was  fellow- 
sufferer  with  herself.  Charles  VI.  took  a  strong  fancy  to  the  gen- 
tle and  beautiful  Yalentina,  between  whom  and  his  wife,  Isabeau, 
there  was  a  certain  personal  resemblance, — probably,  a  family 
likeness ;  for  Isabeau  was  descended  from  a  scion  of  the  same  house 
as  Valentina,  being  daughter  of  Taddea  Visconti,  and  Stephen  II., 
Duke  of  Bavaria. 

The  innocent  and  affectionate  attentions  of  this  lovely  young 
creature  could  win  the  unfortunate  king  from  his  moods  of  distrac- 
tion when  other  means  failed.  In  her  presence  he  felt  calm  and 
pleased  ;  no  one  knew  so  well  how  to  tranquillize  him  when  agitat- 
ed ;  no  voice  like  hers  could  lure  him  from  his  fits  of  sullenness 


176  VALENTINE    DE  MILAN. 

or  depression  ;  and  unweariedly  slie  devoted  herself  to  tlie  gentle 
task  of  relieving  by  all  means  in  Ler  power  his  sufferings  of  body 
and  mind.    The  brilliant  -festivities  which  the  occasion  of  Valen- 
tina's  marriage  called  forth,  and  which  the  profuse  tastes  of  the 
queen  made  frequent  in  that  gay  court,  were  soon  left  unattended 
by  Valentina,  that  she  might  sit  with  the  brain-sick  king,  and  try 
to  alleviate  his  condition.    Her  loving  goodness  touched  his  best 
feelings,  awakened  him  to  a  sense  of  joy  and  comfort,  and  engaged 
his  tenderest  gratitude.    He  called  her  his  "  dear  sister,"  his  "  sweet 
sister ; "  and  begged  her  not  to  deprive  him  of  her  soft  whispered 
talk,  w-hich  was  to  him  welcomest  music.    He  besought  her  not  to 
leave  him ;  not  to  deprive  him  of  her  society,  which  shed  peace 
on  his  troubled  spirit.    He  conjured  her  to  return,  each  time  that 
malignant  slander  drove  her  to  retreat  from  court,  in  the  hope  of 
silencing  its  evil  tongue.    For,  all  the  clearness  of  this  young  crea- 
ture's conduct,  all  the  transparent  innocence  of  her  nature,  could 
not  screen  her  from  injurious  reports.    Though  "  chaste  as  ice,  pure, 
as  snow,  she  could  not  'scape  calumny."    Party  hatred  converted 
even  this  fair  gentle  girl  into  a  medium  for  their  envenomed  shafts. 
Through  her  they  attacked  the  objects  of  their  animosity.  The 
party  of  the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  opposed  with  deadly  rancour  to 
'  that  of  the  queen  and  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  made  the  young  Duch- 
ess of  Orleans  a  source  of  arousing  popular  prejudice.    The  behef 
in  Italian  skill  in  sorcery,  and  Italian  knowledge  of  the  uses  and 
properties  of  various  kinds  of  poisonous  drugs,  was  very  general. 
Even  in  Shakespeare's  time,  we  find  Imogen's  fears  for  her  husband 
taking  the  shape  of  invective  against  "  that  drug-damned  Italy." 
The  Burgundian  party  did  not  hesitate  to  avail  themselves  of  this 
popular  belief,  by  exciting  in  the  pubhc  mind  an  idea  that  Valen- 
tina's  influence  with  the  wit-diseased  monarch  was  owing  to  her 
being  an  adept  in  the  arts  of  sorcery,  and  in  the  preparation  of 


VALENTINE    DE  SIILAN 


177 


philters  conducive  to  subject  tlie  will  and  tlie  affections  of  their 
victim  to  the  sinister  purposes  of  the  swayer.  The  Duke  of  Bur- 
gundy did  not  fail  to  hint,  that  Valentina  in  her  native  Italy  had 
had  ample  opportunity  for  becoming  well  versed  in  the  black  arts 
of  magic,  and  that  she  was  proficient  as  a  poisonei'.  Her  father's 
well-known  studious  habits  as  a  young  man,  and  his  subsequent 
crime  towards  his  uncle,  lent  colour  to  these  accusations.  The 
Duke  of  Orleans'  haughty  rival  insinuated  that  the  young  duchess 
took  advantage  of  her  ascendancy  over  the  king's  doubly  feeble 
mind — weak  from  insanity,  and  weakened  by  fond-potions — to  pro- 
mote her  husband's  interest,  and  secure  his  position  of  authority 
in  the  kingdom.  The  guardianship  of  the  king's  person  had  been 
awarded  to  the  queen ;  while  the  government  of  state  affairs  had 
been  committed  to  the  Duke  of  Burgundy.  But  the  Duke  of  Or- 
leans had  appealed  against  this  disposal ;  and  his  power  over  Isa- 
beau's  heart  enabling  him  to  make  her  exert  herself  in  his  favour, 
their  united  cabals  had  forced  Burgundy  to  yield  for  a  time.  It 
was  in  his  efforts  to  regain  state  authority,  that  the  Duke  of  Bur- 
gundy did  not  scruple  an  attempt  to  fasten  upon  Yalentina  the 
suspicion  of  unduly  influencing  the  king's  favour  on  behalf  of  his 
brother,  her  husband.  It  is  probable  that  the  young  wife  did  ex- 
ercise such  magic  as  she  was  mistress  of,  to  augment  the  partiality 
which  Charles  YI.  had  always  entertained  for  his  unworthy  broth- 
er ;  for  neither  Louis's  wrongs  towards  herself,  nor  his  betrayal 
of  both  conjugal  and  paternal  honour,  could  destroy  her  affection 
for  him.  But  the  magic  she  used,  was  the  sorcery  of  loving-kind- 
ness, the  witcheries  of  affectionate  intimacy ;  the  enchantments  of 
gentle  nursing,  soothing,  cheering,  and  consoling.  Her  sole  chann 
was  the  charm  of  sweet  temper  ;  her  strongest  spell  that  of  good-; 
ness  and  untiring  patience.  Not  only  in  her  behaviour  towards 
the  hapless  king  was  her  moral  beauty  evinced ;  but  in  her  for- 
23 


;LY8  valentine    D  E  MILAN. 

bearaiice  and  lier  constancy  of  attacliment  towards  her  scarce- 
deservino'  Imsband.    Slie  seems  to  liaA^e  possessed  tlie  noble  virtue 
of  making  all  generous  allowance  for  tlie  faults  of  liim  she  loved. 
In  an  era  marked  by  unblusliing  licence  of  all  sorts,  slie  could  find 
large  toleration  for  Ms  open  infidelities,  bis  boundless  luxury,  bis 
rampant  ambition.    Altbougb  ber  innocent  attractions  could  not 
suffice  to  fix  bis  unstable  fancy,  nor  ber  modest  graces  succeed  in 
securing  ber  bis  esteem,  sbe  contmued  to  regard  bim  witb  affection, 
and  to  interest  berself  on  bis  bebalf.    But  not  only  did  be  neglect 
ber  for  otber  women,  wound  ber  feelings  by  indifterence,  burt  ber 
tenderness  by  repulse,  and  injure  ber  botb  in  love  and  bonour  by 
bis  unfaithfulness ;  be  lent  weight  to  the  calumnies  of  ber  accu- 
sers— although  her  accusers  merely  endeavoured  to  ruin  her  on 
his  account — ^by  giving  a  kind  of  countenance  to  their  assertions. 
Not  content  with  alleging  that  she  contrived  to  acquire  unlawful 
influence  over  the  king's  crazed  judgment,  they  barbarously  took 
occasion,  from  the  sudden  death  of  a  beloved  child  of  ber  own,  to 
frame  a  tale  of  treachery  and  subtle  crime  against  ber.    Tlie  par 
tizans  of  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  spread  a  report  that  ber  son  had 
died  in  consequence  of  having  swallowed  by  mistake  a  poisoned 
draught,  prepared  by  his  mother  for  the  Dauphin ;  and  the  Duke 
of  Orleans,  heedless  of  the  air  of  credence  that  such  a  step  would 
give  to  the  story,  and  insensible  to  the  grief  of  that  gentle  heart, 
which  seemed  doomed  to  be  pierced  through  its  tenderest  affec- 
tions, sent  her  away  to  Neufchatel.    This  might  have  been  at  a 
suggestion  from  Isabeau  ;  or  it  might  have  arisen  merely  from  his 
own  levity,  and  a  dissolute  desire  to  free  himself  from  the  presence 
of  a  wife,  in  order  to  give  still  freer  course  to  his  profligate  incli- 
nations.   Not  content  with  the  favours  of  the  licentious  queen, 
Isabeau,  be  sought  those  of  all  the  meretricious  beauties  who 
abounded  in  that  polluted  court;  and  it  was  by  one  of  his  innu- 


VALENTINE    DB    MILAN  179 

merable  mistresses  tliat  lie  tad  that  illegitimate  son,  renowned  in 
history  as  the  handsome  Dunois  ("  le  beau  Dnnois  "),  and  surnamed, 
according  to  the  out-spoken  fashion  of  the  times,  "  the  bastard  of 
Orleans," 

It  was  this  very  sin  in  Louis  Duke  of  Orleans— his  insatiate 
and  all-unsparing  gallantries — which  led  to  his  own  untimely  fate. 

"  The  gods  are  just,  and  of  our  pleasant  viccSs 
Make  instruments  to  scourge  us." 

Louis  dared  to  cast  his  unhallowed  eyes  upon  the  young  Duchess 
of  Burgundy's  beauty ;  and  had  the  audacity  to  attempt  making  it  his 
prey.  His  villainy  not  succeedmg  in  prevailing  against  her  virtue, 
his  vanity  consoled  itself  with  assailing  her  reputation,  by  boasting 
of  favours  never  obtained.  But  this  madly  reprobate  act  cost  hini 
his  life.  The  outraged  husband  was  not  one  to  let  pass  such  an 
occasion  for  signalizing  his  wrath.  It  was  the  crowning  circum- 
stance in  a  long  series  of  mutual  rivalries  and  antagonisms  subsist- 
ing between  the  House  of  Burgundy  and  the  House  of  Orleans. 
The  present  Duke  of  Burgundy  was  that  John  Lack  Fear  ("  Jean 
sans  peur")  who  had  won  this  proud  surname  by  his  dauntless 
bravery  when  a  youth,  in  an  action  against  Bajazet,  Sultan  of  the 
Turks.  He  made  a  desperate  effbrt  to  regain  the  power  he  had 
temporarily  ceded;  marched  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  upon 
Paris  ;  forced  the  queen's  party  to  take  refuge  at  Melun ;  obtained 
possession  of  the  king's  person,  and  of  the  capital,  which  was 
devoted  to  his  interest ;  and  entered  into  negotiations  for  estab- 
hshing  peace.  Apparent  reconciliation  was  effected  ;  but  not  long 
after,  the  Duke  of  Orleans  was  assassinated  in  the  streets  of  Paris. 
For  a  few  days  only.  Burgundy  dissembled ;  then  he  confessed  to 
being  author  of  the  deed,  "  instigated,"  he  said,  "  by  the  Devil." 
Thus  summarily  did  he  account  for  the  foul  act ;  and  though  he 
appeared  to  feel  a  brief  compunction  for  it,  by  retiring  to  his 


j^gO  VALENTINE    D  E  MILAN. 

dominions  after  the  murder,  lie  speedily  rallied,  boldly  justified 
his  act,  charged  the  late  Duke  of  Orleans  with  disloyalty,  returned 
to  Paris  with  an  armed  force,  and  procured,  under  the  hand  and 
seal  of  the  king,  a  pardon  "  for  what  had  lately  happened  to  the 
Duke  of  Orleans." 

Such  boldly  acted,  and  lightly  treated  atrocities,  glaringly 
bespeak  the  lawless  disorder  of  those  times;  and  place  vividly 
before  us  the  distracted  state  of  the  realm  and  of  social  condition. 

Valentina  was  at  Chateau-Thierry  towards  the  close  of  the  yeai 
140*7,  when  she  learned  the  fatal  tidings  of  her  husband's  violent 
death.    His  blood  seemed  to  cry  aloud  for  avenging  retribution ; 
and  she  resolved  to  obtain  this  last  and  sole-remaining  satisfaction 
to  his  manes.    First  placing  her  children  in  safety— for  a  faction 
capable  of  committing  so  flagrant  a  deed,  taught  her  to  take  the 
precaution  of  securing  them  from  possible  harm— she  sent  her 
family  to  Blois,  while  she  herself  repaired  to  Paris.   Arrived  there, 
she  traversed  the  city  accompanied  by  a  long  train  of  women  in 
mourning  garments,  and  went  to  throw  herself  at  the  king's  feet, 
beseeching  vengeance  on  the  murderers  of  her  husband.  The 
feeble-minded  prince  promised  her  redress,  with  all  the  marks  of 
sincere  emotion;  but  he  was  a  mere  puppet  in  the  hands  of  others, 
and  he  had  no  power  to  gain  for  her  what  he  engaged  to  procure. 
The  widowed  duchess,  with  her  sable-clad  attendants,  moving  along 
the  streets  of  the  capital  to  demand  royal  vengeance  for  her  mur- 
dered lord,  offers  one  of  those  solemn  pictures  to  the  imagination 
of  modern  times,  which  then  appealed  straight  to  the  hearts  of  liv- 
ing eye-witnesses.  In  unlettered  ages,  when  printing  was  unknown, 
and  when  even  reading  and  writing  were  confined  to  veriest  few, 
the  people  had  to  be  addressed  in  visible  tokens.    Public  opinion 
was  enlisted  for  or  against,  by  symbols ;  public  sympathy  or  public 
indignation,  public  favour  or  public  animosity  were  best  and  most 


VALENTINE    DE  MILAN. 


181 


effectually  stirred  by  presented  images.  Verbal  report  was  used 
as  a  means  of  prepossessing,  or  prejudicing ;  while  visual  signs  were 
made  tlie  medium  of  active  impression.  Contemporary  history 
slioAvs  that  Yalentina's  j)ublic  procession  through  the  streets  of 
Paris,  was  by  no  means  a  singular  case  of  popular  appeal.  The  life 
of  Isabeau  herself  affords  many  such  examples  ;  and  while  testifying 
the  mode  of  making  those  graphic  appeals,  it  accumulates  instances 
of  the  wild  misrule  then  prevailing.  On  one  occasion,  when  suc- 
cessfully grasping  at  dominant  power,  this  brazen  queen  caused  the 
acts  of  her  administration  to  be  proclaimed,  created  a  parliament, 
had  a  great  seal  engraved,  representing  herself  with  extended  arms, 
towards  imploring  France  ;  and  entitling  herself  in  all  papers 
issued  in  her  name,  "  Isabeau,  by  the  grace  of  God,  Queen  of 
France,  holding,  as  regent  for  his  majesty,  the  King,  the  govern- 
ment and  administration."  At  another  time,  we  find  her  sid- 
ing with  his  enemies  against  her  own  son,  the  Daujjhin ;  degrad- 
ing France  by  treaties  with  the  English,  and  sacrificing  her 
country's  interest  to  her  own,  by  effectmg  an  alliance  in  marriage 
between  her  daughter  Katharine  and  Henry  Y.  of  England. 
Isabeau  is  a  veritable  "  wicked  queen"  of  the  stamp  dejjicted  in 
fiction.  She  is  like  a  royal  heroine  of  melodrama.  She  had  lover 
after  lover  ;  and  stifled  her  pangs  for  the  loss  of  each,  by  taking  a 
new  one.  She  converted  love  into  a  means  of  satisfying  hate  ;  and 
turned  hatred  into  love,  when  it  served  the  j^urposes  of  her  passion 
for  power.  The  three  lovers  whom  she  especially  favoured,  each 
met  with  a  tragical  end.  The  Duke  of  Orleans  was  assassinated ; 
Louis  de  Boisbourdon  was  tortured,  and  flung  into  the  river  ;  and 
the  Duke  of  Burgundy  was  stabbed  to  the  heart.  The  fate  of  the 
second  was  marked  by  that  savage  detail,  characteristic  of  the 
period  in  question.  The  queen's  amour  with  the  young  officer, 
Louis  de  Boisbourdon,  becoming  suspected,  he  was  seized,  loaded 


182 


VALENTINE    DE  3IILAN. 


with  chains^  subjected  to  tlie  torture,  forced  to  confess  Ms  crime, 
thrown  into  the  Seine  at  night,  fastened  in  a  leathern  sack  bearing 
this  inscription: — "Make  way  for  the  king's  justice."  In  the 
period  of  her  disgrace,  when  she  was  deprived  of  her  jewels  and 
treasure,  and  sent  captive  to  Tours,  Isabeau  changed  her  ancient 
enmity  towards  Jean  sans  peur,  Duke  of  Burgundy,  and  murderer 
of  her  first  lover,  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  into  favour  ;  sent  for  him, 
won  him  to  her  cause,  and  effected  hei'  liberation  from  prison  by 
his  means.  A  traitor  gave  admittance  to  the  Burgundian  party 
into  Paris,  where  they  made  horrible  massacre  of  the  Armagnacs — 
the  faction  for  the  time  in  power ;  and  Queen  Isabeau,  with  her 
new  lover,  came  to  the  capital,  escorted  by  twelve  hundred  men-at- 
arms.  Her  entry  wore  the  air  of  a  triumph.  She  appeared, 
mounted  on  a  car.  Flowers  were  strewn  in  her  way  as  she  passed — 
along  those  very  streets  fresh  stained  with  the  blood  shed  in  the 
massacre  just  perpetrated  on  her  behalf  In  those  very  streets,  too, 
where  her  early  lover,  Louis  of  Orleans,  had  been  murdered ;  and 
where  his  young  widow  and  her  mourning  train  had  passed  to  seek 
redress. 

Yalentina's  interview  wdth  the  king  w-as  followed  by  no  effect- 
ive result.  The  queen,  whose  own  selfish  sorrow  at  the  loss  of  the 
Duke  of  Orleans,  inspired  her  with  no  commiseration  for  the 
rightful  grief  of  his  unappy  wife,  sent  her  away  from  court.  Val- 
entina  retired  to  Blois  and  remained  with  her  children ;  but  she 
did  not  cease  from  demanding  justice.  She  even  made  a  second 
attempt  to  engage  the  sympathies  of  the  citizens  of  Paris,  by  once 
more  appearing  before  them,  robed  in  black,  and  attended  by  her 
weeping  women,  on  her  way  to  obtain  a  hearing  for  her  dolorous 
plea  of  the  unavenged  wrong  done  to  her  husband ;  but  the  im- 
punity which  then  attended  crime,  and  the  ascendancy  of  the 
culprit,  rendered  all  her  efforts  unavailing.    The  poignant  regret 


VALENTINE    DE  MILAN. 


183 


tihe  felt  at  tlie  deatli  of  a  liusbaud,  wliose  many  wrongs  towards 
lier  could  not  destroy  lier  love  for  liim,  reduced  lier  to  a  despair 
which,  brought  her  to  the  grave.  Her  husband's  natural  son, 
Dunois,  was  then  at  Blois,  with  her  own  children,  and  the  gener- 
ous tenderness  she  extended  towards  this  gallant  youth — treating 
liini  with  no  less  affection  than  the  rest — was  rewarded  by  a 
devoted  attachment  on  his  part.  Finding  herself  on  her  death- 
bed, Valentina  caused  them  to  assemble  around  her,  and  charged 
them  ever  to  behave  so  as  to  sustain  the  honour  and  glory  of  their 
house  ;  and,  above  all,  to  persevere  in  seeking  to  obtain  vengeance 
for  their  father's  barbarous  murder.  Dunois  responded  to  her 
appeal  with  more  of  spirit  and  determination  than  the  others  ;  and 
she  exclaimed  : — "  He  was  stolen  from  me ;  I  ought  to  have  been 
his  mother."  ■  •        ■        '        -      ■  ,. 

This  noble-hearted  lady,  and  womanly  princess,  died  in  1408, 
at  the  age  of  thirty-eight  only ;  after  having  yielded  to  the  world  an 
example  of  the  brightest  virtue  preserved  unsullied  in  the  midst  of 
a  profligate  court,  the  softest  kindness  amidst  times  the  most  vio- 
lent and  turbulent,  the  mildest  forbearance  under  injurious  treat- 
ment from  her  husband,  and  the  tenderest  constancy  towards  his 
memory.  Her  gentle  patience  with  the  king,  and  her  feminine 
soothings  of  his  malady,  are  in  consonance  with  the  delicate  gene- 
rosity of  her  behaviour  towards  "  le  beau  Dunois."  A  heart  like 
hers  could  find  candour  of  allowance  for  human  failing ;  and  could 
pluck  out  the  core  of  sweetness  that  exists  within,  outwardly  bitter 
husks. 

The  motto  she  adopted  in  her  Avidowhood,  evinces  the  utter 
despondence  which  took  possession  of  that  gentle  heart  when  it 
had  lost  the  husband  who  owned  its  pure  and  fond  affection.  The 
simplicity  of  the  wording,  enhances  the  soft  plaint  and  touching 
resignation  of  the  device  : — 


184 


VALENTINE    DE  MILAN 


"Rien  ne  m'est  plus; 
Plus  ne  m'est  rien." 

["  For  me  nauglit  hencefortli ; 
Henceforth  nauglit  to  me."] 

The  hereditary  rights  of  Valentina,  in  the  Milanese  territory, 
subsequently  became  an  occasion  for  those  wars  in  Italy  which  two 
of  the  kings  of  France — ^both  grandsons  of  hers,  Louis  XII.  and 
Francis  I. — carried  on  there.  She,  who  was  one  of  the  most  for- 
bearing of  women,  to  be  made  the  source  of  an  aggressive  warfare 
upon  her  native  country,  seems  like  a  posthumous  injury  to  her 
gentle  nature.  The  character  of  Valentina  stands  forth  in  the 
centre  of  the  discord  and  licence  that  surrounded  her,  like  a  pure 
statue  of  white  marble  in  a  city  given  up  to  the  bloodshed  and 
rapine  of  conquering  soldiery. 


6^. 


4 


JOAN  D^ARC. 


Feom  tlie  surging  populace  of  great  cities,  even  from  tlie  glittering 
swarm  of  palaces,  may  come  military  heroes  and  managers  of  the 
state — mere  fighters  and  scliemers ;  hut  from  tlie  thoughtful  quiet 
and  sweet  shadow  of  humble  rural  Hfe  come  oftenest  the  leaders 
and  deliverers  of  the  people,  and  they  for  whom  wait  the  divine 
agonies  and  sombre  triumphs  of  martyrdom.  It  is  by  communing 
with  God,  more  than  with  man,  that  they  learn  the  true  grandeur 
of  humanity  and  the  sacredness  of  human  liberty.  It  is  by  "  nour- 
ishing a  youth  sublime  "  on  the  simple  elements  of  nature,  on  the 
healthful  calm  of  solitude,  far  away  from  the  belittling  follies  and 
degrading  passions  of  the  world,  that  the  soul  elect  to  redeem,  or 
to  expiate,  takes  to  itself  the  fiery  forces  of  the  hero  and  the 
grand  sustaining  faith  of  the  martyr. 

The  unobstructed  sight  of  earth  and  sky— the  dewy  sweetness 
and  reverent  stillness  of  early  dawn — the  unveiled  glories  of  mid- 
day, the  pomp  of  sunset,  the  majesty  of  night — sun  and  storm,  the 
freedom  of  winds,  the  strength  of  torrents,  all  minister  to  them  con- 
tinually, in  silent,  subtle  ways.  Even  the  flowers  of  the  field, 
brightening  lonely  places  with  their  prodigal  yet  beneficent  lives, 
and  the  trees  of  the  forest,  blessing  earth  with  liberal  shade, 
24 


Igg  JOAN  D'ARC. 

and  stretcliing  up  yearningly  toward  lieaven,  are  to  tliem  types  and 
teachers  of  the  divinest  truths  and  destinies  of  humanity.  From 
all  they  behold  of  the  natural  world— its  marvels,  its  splen- 
dours and  delights,  they  learn  reverence  for  man,  for  whom  God 
has  cared  and  planned  so  much,  and  reverence  for  God  from  all 
things,  great  or  small — from  the  insect,  that  flashes  into  life  and 
dances  in  the  sunshine  of  a  single  day,  to  the  planet  that  for  ages 
of  ages  has  wheeled  through  the  limitless  heavens  ;— from  the  fire- 
fly, throbbing  out  his  little  radiance  in  the  dusky  dell,  to  the  great 
central  fountain  of  light  at  which  the  worlds  drink. 

The  chosen  of  the  Lord,  the  last  champion  of  Freedom,  the 
heroic  soul  sent  to  meet  some  fearful  crisis  in  the  life  of  nations,  to 
lead,  save,  or  avenge  the  people,  is  almost  always  simple,  pious  and 
primitive.  So  was  David,  the  shepherd  -  king  of  Israel— so  was 
Wallace,  so  was  Tell,  so  to  a  degree  was  Washington,  so  was  Char- 
lotte Corday,  and  so,  beyond  all,  was  that  beautiful  marvel  of 
womanhood  and  sainthood,  Joan  D'Arc. 

•  Nothing  could  have  been  lovelier,  more  sylvan  and  tranquil 
than  the  opening  scene  in  the  life-tragedy  of  Lci  PuceUe.  The 
quaint  httle  village  of  Domremy,  on  the  Meuse,  and  near  the  vast 
forest  of  the  Vosges— the  humble  cottage  of  Jaques  D'Arc,  a  la- 
bourer close  on  to  the  dense  and  fairy-haunted  Bois  Chenus. 

On  the  May  morning  when  Joan  was  born — when  the  fear  and 
the  anguish  were  past,  and  the  peasant-mother  slept  a  sleep  that 
was  like  a  heavenly  trance,  deep,  and  SAveet,  and  calm  as  God's 
peace,— slept,  yet  felt  through  all,  the  new  life  astir  in  her  bo- 
som, the  bhnd  wandering  of  the  soft  little  hands,  the  faint  breath- 
ing of  the  small,  rosy  mouth,— could  she  have  beheld  that  form 
when  scarce  grown  to  womanhood,  encased  in  armour — that  hand 
bearing  the  banner,  the  sword  or  the  battle-axe— those  lips  utter 
ing  prophecies,  rallying-cries,  or  words  of  vain  defence— could  the 


JOAN  D'AKC. 


187 


red  ligLte  of  battle  and  of  martyrdom  have  flamed  tlirougli  lier 
dreams,  how  would  slie  liave  shrieked  herself  out  of  sleep  to  clasp 
her  baby  closer,  with  tears  and  wild  caresses  ! 

But  we  may  not  suppose  that  any  such  prophetic  intimation  of 
the  strange  destiny  that  awaited  her  child  came  then  or  after,  to 
trouble  the  peace  of  Isabella  D'Arc.  The  little  Joan  grew  up 
good  and  beautiful,  modest,  devout  and  obedient,  and  her  parents 
had  doubtless  great  joy  in  her,  hoping  for  her  length  of  days,  ac- 
cording to  the  promise — peace,  the  good-will  of  their  little  world, 
and  humble  happiness.  ;   '     ■  ■ 

But  this  was  not  to  be.  Joan  came  in  a  troublous  time. 
France,  after  a  mighty  struggle,  was  sinking  at  last,  in  the  long, 
unequal  contest; — the  Lion  of  England  was  at  her  throat — the 
fierce  factions  of  Burgundians  and  Armagnacs  were  rending  her  ' 
limbs  apart.  War,  famine,  pestilence,  treason,  rapine — all  imagina- 
ble crimes  and  miseries  desolated  the  land.  More  groans  than 
prayers  ascended  to  Heaven, — for  the  gift  of  hfe,  went  up  curses— 
for  the  smiling  sunshine,  the  blaze  of  burning  hamlets — for  the 
sweet  silent  fall  of  dews,  the  rank  exhalations  of  blood,  crying  to 
God  for  vengeance.  On  the  throne,  a  crazed  king — Henry  of 
England  declared  the  heir— Charles  the  Dauphin  disinherited 
and  proscribed — the  English  arms  overrunning  and  laying  waste 
the  realm, — was  ever  kingdom,  or  people  in  a  more  piteous  and 
humiliating  strait  ? 

All  classes  felt  it, — into  the  most  remote  and  sheltered  village 
came  the  shame  and  the  sadness,  over  the  sunniest  spot  hung  the 
shadow  of  the  nation's  misfortune.  It  came  even  to  Domremy, 
and  lay  very  dark  and  heavy  on  the  soul  of  the  little  maid  J oan. 
It  filled  her  heart,  her  young  girl's  heart,  which  should  have  been 
as  full  of  gladness  and  music  as  a  nest  of  singing-birds,  with  a 
strange  yearning,  a  vague,  but  noble  melancholy,  a  divine  sorrow, — 


188  JOAN    D'AE,C.  - 

or  as  she  more  simply  and  grandly  expressed  it,  "  tJie  pity  for  the 
realm  of  FranceT  Tliis  "  pity  "  left  lier  neither  by  night  nor  day. 
It  was  witli  lier  in  lier  humble  domestic  labours,  in  tlie  fields,  with 
her  flocks,  under  the  fairies'  tree, — ^in  the  old  oah  wood,  beside  the 
fountain,  before  the  shrine,  in  the  chapel,  and  in  her  little  chamber. 

Most  melodious  to  her  ear  and  dear  to  her  heart  were  the 
chimes  of  the  chapel-bells  ;  but  she  loved  better  than  these — bet- 
ter than  the  chanting  of  holy  monks,  to  hear  from  her  mother's  lips 
the  legends  of  saints  and  prophetesses — of  Miriam,  of  Judith,  of  the 
blessed  saints,  Catherine  and  Margaret.  As  she  listened,  the  flash- 
ing of  her  deep,  da,rk  eyes  betrayed  the  fire  of  zeal  and  enthusiasm 
kindled  in  her  soul.  She  longed  to  inspire  others,  or  herself  to 
accomphsh  some  noble  work  for  her  country  and  her  God.  Then 
she  would  ])lush  with  holy  shame  at  her  presumj^tion,  and  say — 
"  What  am  I,  that  I  should  so  aspire  ! — I  who  am  scarce  worthy 
to  pray." 

She  sought  to  fuse  all  her  aspirations,  her  longings,  her  fears 
and  sorrows  and  j^ity  into  prayer.  In  all  things  possible  she  con- 
formed her  outer  life  to  the  example  of  her  "  brothers  and  sisters 
in  Paradise  " — her  inner  life  was  hidden  with  God.  She  haunted 
the  chapel  and  lonely  wayside  shrines,  dropping  tears  with  hev 
beads.  Her  breath  became  as  incense — her  pure  body  a  temple 
of  the  Spirit.  She  vowed  herself  to  holiness,  chastity,  and  the  ser- 
vice of  the  Lord. 

Joan  was  yet  a  child  when  she  had  her  first  vision.  It  did  not 
come  to  her  at  night,  or  in  the  solemn  shades  of  the  forest,  or  dim 
aisles  of  the  church  ;  but  at  noontide,  on  a  summer  day,  in  her 
father's  garden.  She  saw  a  bright  light,  and  heard  a  heavenly 
voice  saying,  "  Joan,  be  a  good  girl," — ^little  more  than  that ;  yet 
the  timid  child  Avas  frightened,  and  told  no  one  at  the  time. 

Again  and  again  came  the  visions,  and,  at  last,  she  grew  fiimil 


JOAN  D'ARC. 


189 


iar  witli  her  celestial  visitors,  Michael,  and  Margaret,  and  Catlie- 
rine,  and  could  recognize  tliem  by  tlieir  voices.  When  tliey  told 
her  to  go  to  the  help  of  her  king  and  country,  she  answered  sim- 
ply, "  I  am  only  a  poor  peasant  girl :  I  know  not  how  to  ride  or 
lead  men-at-arms ;  "  but  when  they  clearly  directed  her  to  go  to 
the  Governor  of  Vaucouleurs  for  aid,  and  promised  to  befriend 
and  guide  her,  she  bowed  her  meek  head  in  devout,  though  tearful 
resignation  to  a  destiny  full  of  strange  terrors,  peril  and  mystery. 

She  left  her  home,  her  parents,  her  brothers,  the  sisters  of  her 
heart,  the  poor  and  suffering  she  had  ministered  to,  the  flocks  and 
herds  she  had  tended,  the  fairies'  tree,  the  fountain,  the  chapel — 
all  the  dear  places  sanctified  by  her  earthly  loves  and  celestial 
visions,  and  went  before  the  Governor  of  Vaucouleurs,  a  great  and 
terrible  personage  to  her,  and  calmly  proclaimed  her  sublime  mis- 
sion and  her  divine  appointment. 

How  the  Sire  de  Baudricourt  scoffed  at  first,  and  refused  all 
aid — how  the  people,  the  common  people,  always  wiser  than  their 
rulers,  believed  ;  and  how  the  hard  scepticism  of  the  rude  soldier 
gave  way  at  last,  before  the  simjDle  eloquence,  the  holy  zeal,  the  sol- 
emn persistency  of  the  inspired  peasant  girl — how  she  clad  herself  in 
a  man's  dress  for  her  man's  work,  and  buckled  a  sword  about  her 
slender  waist — how  she  tore  herself  from  the  arms  of  parents  and 
weeping  friends — how  with  a  little  train  of  followers,  she  traversed 
provinces  bristling  with  the  lances  of  the  foe,  deserts,  forests,  and 
marshes  overflowed  by  wintry  floods,  we  know ;  but  all  she  suf- 
fered, all  she  sacrificed,  the  fiery  strife  that  rent  her  tender  heart — 
the  grief,  the  dread  of  that  parting,  the  secret  shrinking  of  her 
modest  and  sensitive  nature  from  the  unmaidenly  work  to  which 
she  was  called,  we  can  never  know. 

Very  brightly  and  serenely  she  passed  through  the  ordeals  that 
awaited  her  at  Chinon  and  at  Poitiers,  undazzled  by  the  pomps  and 


190  JOAND'ARC. 

splendours  of  tlie  court,  undismayed  by  tlie  avyful  council  of 
learned  doctors,  unbewildered  by  tbeir  cunning  questioning,  their 
theological  subtleties  and  sophistries,  unshaken  by  the  doubts  and 
fears  of  priestly  infidelity.  Through  the  blackening  cloud  of  base 
suspicioD,  through  the  blinding  mists  of  metaphysics,  her  pure  and 
ardent  sonl  burned  its  way.  Like  the  child- Christ,  she  confounded 
the  doctors. 

Again  the  common  peoj)le  believed  in  her,  and  said,  "  The 
maid  is  of  God."  Women  hailed  her  with  joy  as  a  new  revelation 
of  the  Virgin — children  clasped  their  little  hands  in  adoration  and 
lisped  out  Aves. 

What  a  glorious  and  marvellous  vision  she  must  have  seemed  to 
people,  nobles,  priests,  and  soldiers,  when  she  took  her  place  at 
the  head  of  the  army,  in  her  shining  armour,  on  her  black  war- 
horse,  her  battle-axe  and  the  sword  of  St.  Catherine  at  her  side, 
her  sacred  banner  in  her  hand,  her  beautiful  head  uncovered,  her 
lovely  childlike  face  radiant  with  a  saintly  enthusiasm  ! 

And  how  grand  was  her  entrance  into  Orleans — the  brave  and 
suflering  city  which  had  long  been  praying  for  her  coming— the 
fair  promise  of  ages — "the  Pucelle  of  the  Marches  of  Lorraine,  who 
was  to  save  the  realm." 

She  enters  at  night,  in  the  midst  of  a  storm  of  thunder  and 
lightning;  yet  the  people  crowd  around  her,  eager  to  pay  her 
almost  divine  honours.  Down  each  dark  street  they  pour,  like 
torrents — the  thunder  rolls  above  them,  the  rain  beats  upon  them 
unheeded ; — every  flash  of  lightning  reveals  to  the  Maid  thousands 
of  pale,  famished  faces,  thousands  of  awe-struck,  wistful  eyes, 
hungry  for  the  help  she  brings.  Her  war-horse  labours  through 
the  human  flood,  and  bears  her,  not  to  the  rest  and  refreshment 
her  tu^ed  body  so  needs,  but  to  church,  to  offer  up  prayers  and 
thanksgiving.    As  she  prostrates  herself  on  the  cold  marble  floor, 


JOAND'ARC.  ■  191 

before  the  image  of  lier  Lord,  and  tlie  silver  clang  of  her  armour 
rings  tlirongli  the  churcli,  the  people  who  have  followed  her,  kneel 
also,  scarcely  knowing  if  they  are  worshipping  the  creature  or  the 
Creator.  And  from  that  girlish  figure,  kneeling  with  clasped 
hands,  hfting  a  face  pale  with  mortal  weariness,  yet  strong  with 
divine  power — the  long  dark  locks  dripping  over  it,  and  mingling 
rain  with  tears,  a  wave  of  devotion  seems  to  flow  down  the  long 
dim  aisle,  and  out  into  the  open  street,  prostrating  the  crowd,  who 
weep,  give  thanks,  and  adore. 

From  the  church,  Joan  repaired  to  the  house  of  the  duke's 
treasurer,  who  entertained  her  during  her  stay  in  Orleans.  His 
wife  and  family  received  her  kindly,  and  one  of  the  daughters, 
Charlotte,  shared  her  chamber  and  bed.  One  can  but  wonder  if 
Charlotte  slept  much  that  niglit,  side  by  side  with  that  wonderful, 
beautiful,  anomalous  creature — that  tender  virgin,  who  had  just 
laid  ofi^  the  armour  of  the  warrior — that  prophet,  seer,  and  leader 
of  armies,  who,  even  in  her  dreams,  talked  with  her  saints,  and 
murmured  of  battles  and  sieges. 

But  though  the  soul  of  the  Maid  was  exalted  to  almost  super- 
human heights  of  heroism  and  devotion,  her  woman's  heart  was 
most  womanly.  "When,  as  she  rode  around  the  walls,  and  sum- 
moned the  besiegers  to  surrender,  or  commanded  them  to  depart, 
they  returned  railing,  curses  and  vile  epithets,  she  shrank  and  beut 
under  their  stinging  insults,  as  from  a  pelting  hail-storm,  and  cov- 
ering her  burning  face  with  her  hands,  wept  bitterly.  Then  came 
to  her  a  voice  which  none  else  could  hear,  a  voice  of  love  and 
strengthening,  and  she  looked  up  comforted,  saying: — "I  have  had 
news  of  my  Lord." 

J oan  has  been  compared  to  David  of  Israel ;  yet  surely  there 
is  little  likeness  beyond  the  fact  that  she  sometimes  tended  her 
father's  flocks.    David,  a  youth  "ruddy"  and  "goodly  to  look 


192 


JOAN  D'ARC 


upon,"  came  singing  and  harping  to  the  camp  of  the  king,  uncon- 
scious of  the  work  before  him.    Joan,  a  maiden,  pale  with  the 
passion  of  her  sublime  purpose,  came  praying  and  fighting— or,  at 
least,  leading  fighters,  for  it  was  affirmed,  and  we  like  to  beheve 
it  true,  that  her  hand  and  holy  sword  were  never  stained  with 
blood  of  her  own  shedding.    She  comprehended,  in  all  its  magni- 
tude and  peril,  the  work  to  which  she  was  called.    She  had  meas- 
ured her  Gohah,  and  knew  that  his  fall  would  shake  the  realm, 
and  mio-ht  crush  her.    When  David's  envious  brother  said  to  him 
— "  Why  comest  thou  down  hither  ?  and  with  whom  hast  thou  left 
those  few  sheep  in  the  wilderness?"  it  is  very  likely  that  David 
smiled  quietly,  and  went  on  adjusting  the  avenging  pebble  in  his 
sling— but  when  the  English  Glasdale  cried  out  to  Joan  to  "go 
back  to  her  cows,"  she  wept.    Both  knew  that  "  the  battle  was 
the  Lord's  "^but  David  flung  his  fiery  young  heart  into  the  thick 
of  the  fight,  into  the  fury  of  carnage— Joan's  heart  was  down 
among  the  fallen,  bleeding  with  every  wound  that  carried  mortal 
anguish  to  friend  or  foe.    David  devoted  his  enemies  to  indiscrim- 
inate slaughter,  and  "pursued  after  them;"  Joan,  magnanimous 
and  merciful,  wept  over  the  dead,  comforted  the  wounded,  and 

spared  the  flying. 

Throuo-hout  the  siege  of  Orleans,  how  infinitely  she  transcended 
the  l^oldest  and  brightest  ideals  of  the  enthusiast  and  the  poet! 
How  grand  was  she  in  courage  and  endurance,  how  childhke  in 
her  simplicity  and  faith,  how  divine  in  her  "  pity."  Nothing  long 
disturbed  the  lofty  calm  of  her  perfect  trust,  the  serenity  and  poise 
of  a  modest  self-respect,  and  a  simple  dignity  surpassing  the  utmost 
pride  of  kings,  putting  to  shame  the  frigid  hauteur  of  queens. 
Even  insult  and  treachery  from  those  who  should  have  honoured 
her  most,  and  implicitly  obeyed  her,  as  one  who  spoke  and  acted 
as  she  believed,  and  they  professed  to  believe,  by  divine  authority, 


JOAN    D'AR  C 


193 


all  failed  to  more  her  to  violence.  When  she  heard  that  a  secret 
council  had  been  held,  at  which  opposite  measures  from  those  she 
advised  had  heen  resolved  upon,  though  she  saw  clearly  the  un- 
worthy object  of  her  envious  confederates,  and  -must  have  felt  a 
noble  scorn  of  passions  so  reckless  and  so  mean,  she  only  said 
quietly,  "  You  have  been  at  your  council ;  I  have  been  at  mine." 

She  had  resolved,  or  rather,  as  she  would  have  said,  "  the  voices  " 
had  told  her,  that  the  daring  and  decisive  movement,  the  attack 
on  the  Tournelles,  should  be  made  on  Saturday,  the  7th  of  May — 
and  who  should  gainsay  her,  through  whose  lips  spoke  the  power 
and  the  wisdom  that  dwelt  not  in  armies,  or  in  councils  of  men  ? 
At  dawn,  she  went  forth,  fasting,  but  strong  and  fall  of  hope  and 
courage,  at  the  head  of  a  few  men-at-arms  and  a  crowd  of  citizens, 
eager  to  follow  wherever  their  fighting  angel  should  lead — in- 
spired with  one  purpose,  one  faith,  one  soul. 

The  stoutest  English  hearts  quailed  when  they  beheld  this 
multitude  hurled  against  their  bastilles  in  one  stupendous  ava- 
lanche of  valour  and  of  fury  ;  but  they  shrank  with  superstitious 
dread,  crossed  themselves,  and  muttered  holy  words  with  white 
lips,  when  they  beheld  Joan,  cheering  and  leading  on  the  assail- 
ants, her  silver  armour  flashing  back  the  sun,  her  snowy  ban- 
ner swimming  on  the  breezy  air  of  morn !  What  arm  of  flesh, 
what  mortal  valour  could  withstand  this  superhuman  adversary, 
this  fair  young  witch,  this  avenging  Nemesis,  with  the  face  of  an 
angel— this  radiant  portent,  this  beautiful  terror  ! 

Yet  one  steadied  his  brain  with  sturdy  hate,  and  fixed  his  dazed 
eye  long  enough  to  direct  an  arrow  toward  that  shining  form— or 
it  may  have  been  a  chance  shaft  that  struck  her.  Certain  it  is, 
that  Joan  was  on  this  day  wounded,  for  the  first  time,  just  as  she 
was  about  to  mount  the  wall  of  the  redoubt.  She  had  prophesied 
this;  yet  when  the  cruel  arrow  plunged  into  her  breast,  and  the 


i94  -         JOAN  D'ARC. 

warm  blood  jetted  out  over  her  corselet,  slie  trembled  and  burst 
into  tears.  The  human  bled,  the  woman  wept,  but  the  devout 
heroic  soul  neither  fainted  nor  despaired. 

For  a  little  while  she  consented  to  be  borne  from  the  scene  of 
conflict,  that  her  wound  might  be  dressed.    Then,  comforted  and 
strengthened  by  her  "  holy  ones,"  she  rose  from  the  grass,  wet  with 
her  precious  blood,  (the  spot  should  have  grown  the  lilies  of 
France  ever  after,)  and  staggered  back  to  her  place  in  the  van. 
But  she  found  the  assailants  giving  way.    It  seemed  that  her 
wound  had  drained  their  hearts  of  courage.    Dunois  sounded  a 
retreat,  but  Joan  only  counselled  them  to  "  rest  awhile,  eat  and 
drink."    For  herself,  she  prayed.     Then  she  directed  that  her 
sacred  banner  should  again  be  borne  against  the  redoubt,  pro- 
mising victory  the  moment  it  should  touch  the  wall.    And  no 
sooner  were  its  silken  folds  seen  to  surge  and  ripple  against  the 
dark  stone,  than  seized  with  a  fiery  impulse  of  faith  and  valour, 
citizens  and  men-at-arms  bounded  up  the  ladders,  leaped  over  the 
walls,  and  all  was  won  !    Better  than  balsam  for  her  wound,  and 
strong  wine  for  her  weakness,  were  to  Joan,  the  victorious  shouts 
of  her  people.    Almost  with  the  same  breath  she  thanked  God  for 
the  deliverance  of  Orleans,  and  prayed  his  mercy  on  the  souls  of 
the  English  perishing  in  battle,  or  drowning  in  the  Loire. 

The  next  day,  the  ninth  from  that  of  Joan's  entrance  into 
Orleans,  the  siege  was  raised  and  the  enemy  retreated.  Joan  for- 
bade pursuit,  saying,  "  Let  them  go— it  is  Sunday." 

From  this,  to  the  crowning  at  Rheims,  how  marvellous,  how 
almost  passing  belief  were  the  acts,  and  the  triumphs  of  the  maid  ! 
—Sweeping  on  from  victory  to  victory,  mysteriously  led  by  an 
imagination  exalted  above  human  reason— by  a  divine  instinct,  by 
a  sometUng  awful  and  infallible,  moving  ever  before  her— her 
cloud  by  day,  and  her  fire  by  night.  What  mere  hero  ever  united 


JOAN    D  '  A  R  C  . 


195 


such  liigli,  unselfisli  aims,  sucli  faith,  such  saiictity,  to  such  a  genius  for 
war,  surpassing  and  utterly  confounding  the  cunning  and  strategy, 
the  venerable  precedents,  the  "  wise  saws  and  modern  instances " 
of  military  art.  Her  successes  vindicated  her  "  wild  wisdom,"  and 
showed  that  the  haste  and  boldness  of  her  movements  were  but 
prudence  and  forethought,  fused  into  a  passion.  At  the  time  when 
she  urged  upon  Charles  the  Dauphin  the  daring  policy  of  marching 
at  once  to  Rheims,  to  be  crowned  before  his  rival,  the  boy-king  of 
England — thus  securing  to  himself  a  most  important  advantage,  a 
solemn  prestige  which  nothing  could  set  aside — she  was  opposed 
by  his  oldest  and  so-called  wisest  counsellors,  who  all  advised 
delay.  Even  the  soldiers,  who  had  been  ready  to  pay  her  divine 
honours  in  the  hour  of  victory,  doubted  and  feared.  With  them, 
enthusiasm  was  but  the  light  crackling  flame  of  fagots,  burning 
itself  out  with  the  occasion,  and  leaving  merely  ashes  for  the  winds 
to  scatter — in  her,  it  was  the  intense  glow  of  molten  metal,  flowing 
into  the  heaven-formed  moulds  of  great  deeds,  and  hardening  for 
immortality.  In  their  coarser  natures,  her  mystic  illumination 
became  the  -wild  light  of  superstition — ^her  faith,  fanaticism — ^her 
courage,  ferocity — ^her  righteous  anger,  the  fury  of  rapine  and 
revenge. 

Yet  she  led  them  on,  wherever  her  "  holy  ones  "  beckoned — • 
led  those  fierce  French  captains  like  bloodhounds  in  leash,  sullen 
and  rebellious,  yet  yielding  a  growling  obedience — ^led  the  soldiers, 
at  first,  doubting  and  grumbling— then,  as  victory  followed  victory, 
again  wondering  and  adoring — ^led  the  daily  augmenting  hosts  of 
the  people,  a  motley  multitude,  some  inspired  with  her  inspiration, 
her  love  and  "  pity  for  the  realm  of  France,"  some  desperate  with 
wretchedness  and  wrong — worn  wrestlers  with  pestilence  and 
famine,  gaunt  and  ferocious  as  starved  wolves,  and  mad  with  the 
sharper  hunger  of  long  unsatisfied  hate. 


196  JOAN    D' A  EC. 

In  the  coronation  at  Kheims,  wlio  does  not  feel  tliat  the  real 
crown  descended  on  the  bowed  head  of  the  Maid?  A  crown 
beside  which  the  circle  of  gold  and  jewels  that  flashed  about  the 
brows  of  Charles  was  but  the  veriest  bauble  that  ever  a  child 
sported  with  ?  And  when  she  fell  at  his  feet,  and,  weeping  en- 
treated that  she  might  be  allowed  to  sheath  her  sword  and  fold  her 
banner  for  ever — to  return  to  her  home,  and  the  tending  of  her 
flocks  at  Domremy — ^to  her  humble  household  duties  and  loves, 
who  does  not  feel  that  she  was  higher  and  grander  than  any 
monarch  that  ever  lived  ? 

How  soon  after  leaving  Eheims  the  Maid's  path  begins  to 
darken  to  us,  with  the  vast  shadows  of  doom  stretching  backward 
from  Kouen  !  To  her  it  only  seemed  dark  and  doubtful  after  the 
visions  and  the  voices  left  her  at  St.  Denys.  Repulsed  and 
wounded  in  the  attack  on  Paris,  she  saw  what  the  end  would  be, 
and  nerved  her  great  soul  to  meet  it.  "With  what  sublime  patience, 
with  what  pathetic  grandeur  her  nature  endured  the  darkness  and 
the  storm  of  the  evil  days,  and  rose  above  misfortunes  and 
reverses !  When  her  sword  of  St.  Catherine  was  broken— when 
her  sacred  banner  had  trailed  in  the  dust— when,  wounded  in  vain, 
she  had  been  borne  by  her  soldiers  away  from  a  lost  battle — when 
her  king  reproached  and  courtiers  scoffed,  blaspheming  against  lier 
"holy  ones" — when  her  enemies  railed,  and  the  heavens  were 
dumb — when  men  were  faithless,  and  angels  forgetful— still, 
through  cloud,  as  through  sunlight,  from  the  valley  of  humiliation 
as  from  the  heights  of  triumph,  she  looked  upward  and  prayed. 
When  her  Lord  hid  his  countenance  from  her,  she  clutched  at  the 
hem  of  his  garment. 

At  the  siege  of  Saint  Pierre-le-Moustiers,  where  she  gained  a 
victory,  though  almost  deserted  by  her  men,  a  glorious  vision  of 
heavenly  aid  was  vouchsafed  to  her.    One  of  her  followers  testified 


JOAN  D'ARC. 


197 


tliat  seeing  the  Pucelle  apart,  he  asked  what  she  was  doing  there 
alone,  and  she  taking  her  helmet  from  her  head,  replied  that  she 
was  not  alone,  but  had  in  her  company  fifty  thousand  of  her  people, 
and  that  she  would  not  leave  the  spot  until  she  had  taken  the 
town.  "  And  yet,"  adds  the  witness,  "  for  all  that  she  said,  she  had 
with  her  no  more  than  four  or  five  men." 

This  Danlon  was  like  the  servant  of  the  prophet,  before  his 
eyes  were  opened  to  see  the  airy  army  of  the  saints  militant—"  the 
horses  and  chariot^- of  fire  round  about  Elisha." 

On  the  night  when  Joan  was  taken  captive  in  a  sortie  from 
Compiegne — in  reality,  betrayed  into  the  hands  of  her  enemies,  she 
is  said  to  have  prophesied  her  approaching  fate  in  the  church  of  St. 
Jaques.  After  having  partaken  of  the  holy  sacrament,  she  stood 
leaning  against  a  pillar,  and  looking  round  on  the  people  and  the 
little  children,  with  tender,  wistful  sadness  ;  then  she  said — "  My 
good  friends  and  my  dear  children,  I  tell  you  of  a  surety,  there  is  • 
a  man  who  has  sold  me ;  I  am  betrayed,  and  shall  soon  be  given 
up  to  death.  Pray  to  God  for  me,  I  beseech  you ;  for  I  shall  no 
longer  be  able  to  serve  my  king,  or  the  noble  realm  of  France." 

Does  not  this  scene,  do  not  these  words  recall  a  yet  more 
solemn  communion — a  more  august  voice  of  prophecy,  of  loving 
and  sorrowful  farewell  ? 

During  the  nine  dark  heavy  months  of  her  imprisonment, 
dragged  from  fortress  to  fortress,  from  prison  to  prison — now  in 
the  lofty  towers  of  Beaulieu,  and  Beaurevoir,  where  she  was  tempted 
for  the  help  of  the  poor  people  of  Compiegne  to  fling  herself  down, 
vainly  hoping  that  her  angels  would  bear  her  up, — now  in  the  low. 
donjon-keep  of  Crotoy,  where  she  looked  out  on  the  restless  sea, 
toward  the  land  of  her  pitiless  foes — ^betrayed,  humiliated,  "  sold 
for  a  price,"  loaded  with  chains,  insulted,  and  reviled ;  spat  at  and 
buffeted  by  Christian  England — mahgned   and  abandoned  by 


198  JOAND'ARC. 

Christian  France— alone,  absolutely  alone  in  this  awful  strait,  her 
lofty  and  courageous  soul  remained  unsubdued,  undismayed — re- 
gretting not  the  past,  despairing  not  for  the  future,  neither  reproach- 
ing craven  friends,  nor  railing  at  unmanly  foes. 

Yet  we  cannot  but  believe  that  her  bitterest  secret  tears  were 
shed  over  the  coldness  of  her  followers  and  the  cowardly  indifference 
of  her  sovereign.  He  who  but  for  the  crown  she  placed  upon  his 
head,  would  have  stood  unroofed  to  the  heavens— but  for  the  help 
she  brought,  would  still  have  been  a  royal  outlaw — hunted  per- 
chance among  caves  and  rocky  fastnesses,  while  his  child-rival 
played  secm-ely  at  kingship,  under  the  red  shadow  of  Winchester 

 be,  so  immeasurably  in  her  debt,  stood  aloof  from  her  in  the 

hour  of  her  great  need,  and  sunk  his  poor  soul  into  depths  of 
infamy  unfathomable.  To  her  whose  career  was  the  sole  glory  of 
his  reign,  whose  blood  had  consecrated  his  crowning  more  than  the 
holy  oil  of  the  Priest,  he  had  made  this  return  ;— he  gave  at  her 
humble  entreaty,  exemption  from  taxation  to  Domremy— he 
gilded  against  her  wish  "the  refined  gold  "  of  heroic  sanctity,  and 
painted  "  the  lily  "  of  chaste  womanhood  by  his  miserable  letters 
of  nobility.    Behold  all ! 

In  the  history  of  every  Repubhc  there  are  pages  blackened 
with  the  proverbial  crime  of  Republics,— and  how  few  portraits  of 
Princes  can  be  painted  to  the  life,  without  the  blush,  or  *the  brand 
of  the  same  low  crime.  How  many  a  beautiful  young  champion  has 
made  his  Sovereign  "  wroth  "  by  the  very  glory  of  his  triumphs, 
has  been  "  eyed  "  with  evil  suspicion,  and  heard  the  air  sing  with 
the  javelins  of  kingly  jealousy :— how  many  a  faithful,  white- 
bearded  soldier,  with  loyalty  written  in  wounds  upon  his 
breast,  has  been  driven  from  court  and  camp,  in  age,  poverty,  and 
misfortune,  like  a  grand  old  war-horse  turned  out  on  the  world's 
wide  common  to  die ;— how  many  a  statesman,  with  his  life  woven 


JOAN  D'AKC 


199 


into  the  woof  of  his  country's  laws,  and  whose  acts  are  epochs  in 
her  history,  has  been  royally  frowned  out  of  power  and  place  ; — 
how  many  a  noble  voyager  has  returned  with  a  bowed  head  and 
manacled  hands  from  the  quest  of  continents,  from  pointing  out 
the  track  of  empires  and  unlocking  the  mystery  of  ages.  But 
what  single,  gigantic  ingratitude  of  prince,  from  Saul  to  Ferdinand 
■ — what  monstrous,  concrete  ingratitude  of  Republic  ever  equalled 
in  wickedness  and  baseness,  the  ingratitude  of  Charles  ?  The  hor- 
ror of  it  seems  stamped  into  the  heart  of  the  world — the  shame  of 
it  seems  yet  to  blush  in  the  blood  of  the  race. 

Joan  D'Arc  was  brought  to  trial  on  the  21st  of  May,  1431, 
before  a  tribunal  of  priests — mostly  dark,  wily,  unscrupulous  men, 
the  tools  of  Cauchon,  bishop  of  Beauvais,  the  tool  of  Cardinal 
"Winchester.  After  the  full  and  eloquent  account  of  M.  Michelet, 
it  were  needless  for  us,  even  had  we  space,  to  give  the  details  of 
this  strange  trial,  this  monstrous  mockery  of  justice,  wherein  the 
bribed  and  bigoted  judges  took  their  seats  resolved  to  give  the 
undefended  and  unbefriended  prisoner  not  even  the  benefit  of  a 
merciful  doubt — to  shut  their  eyes  and  harden  their  hearts  for  con- 
viction and  doom.  They  arrayed  against  the  Maid  all  the  terrors 
of  ecclesiastical  law — they  frowned  upon  her  with  the  black  wrath 
of  the  Church — they  prepared  theological  pitfalls  for  her  feet — 
they  wove  about  her  snares  of  cunning  subtleties,  fine  as  air — they 
dressed  up  lies  as  truths,  and  truths  as  lies.  Bat  she  feared  no 
human  law  while  conscious  of  perfect  obedience  to  the  divine. 
The  terrors  of  the  Church  could  not  awe  or  alarm,  while  she  was 
sure  of  God,  nor  the  power  of  priests  darken  the  sunshine  of  his 
acceptance;  her  simple  faith  bridged  unconsciously  the  pitfalls 
they  had  dug  with  demoniac  patience — to  her  child-eyes  their  mar- 
vellous snares  of  cunning  subtleties  were  but  frail,  transparent 
webs,  spun  by  human  spiders — black,  venomous  creatures,  but 


200  JOAN    D  '  A  R  C  . 

powerless  to  liold  or  harm  lier.  As  for  tlie  viper-like  doubts  witli 
wliicli  tliey  souglit  to  sting  lier  soul,  she  flung  tliem  off  unhurt ; 
the  poison  would  not  work  in  her  pure  blood. 

She  neither  denied  her  faith,  nor  defied  her  fate.  Like  a  vir- 
gin-martyr in  the  arena,  surrounded  by  curious  and  mocking  foes, 
while  that  soft-footed,  sleek-coated,  priestly  hate  crept  around  and 
around  her,  nigher  and  nigher,  with  a  glare  of  fierce  exultation 
and  hot  pantings  of  blood-thirst,  she  neither  crouched  nor  towered, 
but  stood  erect  and  calm,  in  the  simple  majesty  of  innocence  and 
maidenhood,  sublime  in  resignation. 

Again  and  again,  upon  her  trial,  she  expressed  her  unshaken 
faith  in  God,  her  reliance  upon  his  goodness,  her  submission  to  his 
will.  In  vain  they  applied  the  rack  of  inquisition  to  her  soul — 
they  extorted  no  murmur  of  weak  fear,  no  faintest  shriek  of  athe- 
ism. In  vain  they  sought  to  involve  her  in  a  labyrinth  of  doubts, 
contradictions  and  metaphysical  objections, — she  held  fast  to  a  clue 
invisible  to  them,  by  which  she  felt  her  way  back  to  God. 

One  of  her  judges  asked— "Joan,  do  you  believe  yourself  in  a 
state  of  grace?" — a  cruel  and  momentous  question  to  put  to  any 
human  soul,— but  what  mingled  meekness  and  wisdom  in  her 
reply : 

"  If  I  am  not,  may  God  be  loleased  to  receive  me  into  it ;  if  I 
am,  may  God  be  pleased  to  keep  me  in  it." 

At  length,  after  months  of  examination  and  intimidation  came 
the  horrible  public  parade  of  judges,  preachers,  men-at-arms,  execu- 
tioners, torturers,  all  to  confront  and  terrify  one  poor  girl,  pale 
and  weak  with  recent  illness,  long  imprisonment,  anxiety,  sorrow, 
and  barbarous  usage.  On  a  towering  scaffold  in  the  cemetery  of 
St.  Ouen,  with  memento  mori  written  in  grave-mounds  around  her 

 ^vith  grim  torturers  at  her  side  and  the  executioner  waiting  in  his 

cart,  beneath  her,  she  was  betrayed,  tricked  into  signing  a  revocn- 


JOAN  D'ARC. 


201 


tion.  A  brief,  unimportant  paper  was  read  to  her,  wliicli  she 
could  sign  without  treason  to  her  "  holy  ones  "  or  her  own  soul. 
And  she  signed — not  that,  but  a  paper  which  had  been  artfully 
substituted — a  long,  humiliating,  traitorous  recantation.  Then  fol- 
lowed "  the  sentence  of  grace ! " — the  condemnation  to  life-long 
imprisonment,  penance,  and  a  woman's  dress.  Then,  sent  not  to  one 
of  the  prisons  of  the  church,  where  she  would  have  had  "  ghostly 
keepers,"  but  back  to  her  old  dungeon,  where  she  found  herself 
surrounded  by  rude  soldiers,  with  no  defence  against  their  vengeful 
hate  and  brutal  passion;  manacled,  deprived  of  her  male  dress, 
the  last  trap  of  monkish  craft  was  sprung  upon  her — the  vile 
fiendish  plot  by  which  her  virgin  purity  was  made  to  cost  her  the 
cruellest  pains  of  martyrdom.  Robbed  in  the  night  of  her  wo- 
man's robes,  she  jrat  on  her  soldier's  dress,  with  no  martial  thrill  in 
her  heavy  heart — with  no  delight  in  its  tinkle  and  bravery. 

How  exulted  then  her  implacable  foreign  foes  and  her  priestly 
persecutors — how  they  crowded  around  the  pit  into  which  she  had 
fallen  at  last,  and  laughed  down  upon  her  in  horrible  joy.  Eng- 
lish and  French  forgot  the  fierce  enmity  of  ages,  in  the  grim  sym- 
pathy of  superstition,  in  the  fraternity  of  hate. 

Mr.  De  Quincey,  in  that  remarkable  Essay  upon  Joan  of  Arc, 
in  which  he  seems  for  a  time  to  be  beating  off  with  light  jesting 
and  querulous  cavilling  the  full  realization  of  the  piteous  tragedy  of 
Joan's  story,  that  nevertheless  possesses  him  at  last,  and  fills  him 
with  glorious  frenzy — argues  that  M.  Michelet  bears  too  severely 
upon  the  English  for  their  share  in  the  persecution  and  martyrdom 
of  the  Maid ;  and  that  the  French  priests,  who  acted  as  the  tools 
of  Winchester  in  trying  and  condemning  her,  and  the  French 
king  and  people  who  made  no  eflPort  to  save  her,  were  more  guilty 
than  the  English,  who  had,  at  least,  the  excuse  of  foes,  and  defeated 
foes,  with  lost  honour  and  blood  to  avenge.  It  were  a  difiioult, 
26 


JOAN  D'AIIC. 

and,  perhaps,  presumptuous  thing,  to  portion  out  and  balance  such 
gigantic  crime— only  God's  hand  can  weigh  mountains.  The  flames 
of  the  martyrdom  of  that  single  woman,  that  girl  of  nineteen,  are 
still  the  lurid  light  by  which  the  world  reads  the  character  of  her 
people  and  her  king— and,  stretching  across  the  channel,  they  fall 
as  ghastly  illuminations  on  a  dark  page  of  English  history. 

^At  one  time,  Joan's  enemies  had  feared  that  she  would  escape 
them— that  the  death-angel  would  dash  from  her  lips  the  "  bitter 
cup  "  they  had  mixed  for  her.  It  was  when  she  fell  ill  in  Passion- 
Week,  with  home-sickness  and  soul-sickness,  rather  than  any  bodily 
disease.  A  sweet,  kindly  breath  of  the  spring  air,  which  searched 
into  her  dungeon,  and  thrHled  through  the  noisome,  stagnant  air, 
a  few  brave  and  loving  sunbeams  smilmg  through  her  grated  win- 
aow— perchance  the  faint,  delicious  murmur  of  birds,  nest-building 
in  the  prison  towers,  awoke  wild  yearnings  inker  heart  for  Dom- 
rl^mj,  the  old  oak  wood,  the  haunted  fountain,  her  home,  and  all  its 

household  loves. 

On  Easter  Sunday,  how  the  joy-peal  of  Rouen's  five  hundred 
beUs  must  have  smote  upon  her  heart !  As  they  swung  on  high, 
consecrating  the  air  with  melodious  benedictions,  sprinkling  earth 
with  a  baptism  of  holy  sound,  they  rung  out  hope,  and  love,  and 
life  to  aU  save  her.  Through  her  prison  walls  the  many-toned 
chime  came  robbed  of  gladness  and  mercy-stern,  reproachful, 
ominous-a  hurried  death-knell.  For  the  happy  world  without, 
the  Lord  arose  from  the  dead-for  her,  no  angel  came  to  roll  away 
the  stone  from  the  door  of  the  sepulchre. 

With  a  diabolical  mockery  of  human  kindness,  she  was  cured 
of  this  illness.  She  must  not  be  allowed  to  steal  quietly  out  of 
prison,  like  the  Apostle,  and  escape  with  the  angel  down  the  dark 
valley  by  night.  She  must  not  die  like  a  child,  of  home-sickness, 
like  a  woman,  of  a  broken  heart.    Her  death  must  be  made  a  spec- 


JOAN    D  '  A  11  C 


203 


tacle  for  nations — ^thousands  must  feast  on  her  torments,  and  snnff 
tlie  smoke  of  lier  burning. 

There  is  something  infinitely  touching  in  the  saint's  and  hero's 
relapse  into  simple  humanity  and  womanhood,  on  that  dark  unna- 
tural May  morning,  when  the  heavy  news  was  told  her  that  she 
must  die  before  sunset.  She  wept  bitterly.  Like  Jephtha's  daugh- 
ter, she  mourned  that  her  pure  and  beauteous  body  should  be  thus 
cruelly  sacrificed,  exclaiming : — "  Helas  I  Me  traile4-on  ainsi  lior- 
riblement  et  cruellement^  qiCil  faille  que  mon  corps^  net  en  entie)\  qui 
ne  flit  jamais  corrompu^  soil  aupurd^hui  consume  et  rendu  en 
cendres  f''  '         '  ' 

She  shrank,  and  shrieked,  and  writhed  at  the  thought  of  the 
flames,  pitying  herself  for  the  pain.  But  the  saint  triumphs  soon  ; 
even  through  the  fiery  vista  before  her,  she  sees  a  better  kingdom 
than  France,  a  better  home  than  Domremy— even  in  this  death, 
she  recognizes  the  "  deliverance  "  promised  by  "  the  voices." 

She  appealed  to  God,  from  the  injustice  and  cruelty  of  earth ; 
she  partook  of  the  holy  sacrament,  with  many  tears ;  she  uttered 
her  touching  and  tremendous  words  to  the  Bishop  of  Beauvais,  a 
summons  to  answer  for  her  death  before  God.  What  a  childlike 
naturalness,  what  a  plaintive  naivete  marked  the  words  she  ad- 
dressed to  one  of  the  preachers  standing  by :  "  All !  Maitre  Pierre^ 
ou  serai-je  ce  soir  ?  " 

We  can  fancy  the  tearful,  wistful  look,  the  terrified  tremble  of 
the  hands,  and  all  the  voice  broken  up  in  sobs,  with  which  she 
said  this.  Then,  as  the  priest  replied — "  JSfavez  vous  pas  honne 
esperance  au  Seigneur  ?  "  the  light  of  reassurance,  the  smile,  the 
clasped  hands,  the  heavenward  gaze,  the  voice  clear  and  fervid,  as 
she  said : — "  Oil !  oui,  Dieu  aidant^  je  serai  en  Paradis  !  " 

Bound,  and  borne  in  a  cart,  like  a  common  malefactor,  sur- 
rounded by  a  guard  of  eight  hundred  English  soldiers,  Joan 


204  J  0  A  N    D  '  A  R  C  . 

D'Arc  passed  througli  tlie  streets  of  Roueu,  to  the  market-place ; 
but  in  tlie  eyes  of  tlie  angels,  tliat  awful  liour  must  have  thrown 
into  shade  all  foregone  hours  of  triumph — grander  to  them  was  the 
pale  martyr  in  her  rude  cart,  hedged  in  by  bristling  lances,  than 
the  proudest  conqueror  in  his  triumphal  car,  followed  by  princely 
captives,  and  the  spoils  of  kingdoms. 

At  the  stake,  the  Maid  again  bravely  proclaimed  her  faith  in 
"  the  voices,"  and  nobly  defended  her  king.  Her  sublime,  yet 
meek  composure — her  marvellous  womanly  sweetness  filled  many 
of  her  persecutors  with  wonder,  pity,  and  vain  remorse.  The 
people  looked  on  as  in  a  horrible  dream— weeping,  groaning, 
praying,  but  powerless  to  help.  One  last  word  of  reproach 
shivered  the  petrified  heart  of  the  Bishop  of  Beauvais— cleft  its  way 
to  a  deep,  unsuspected  vein  of  human  feeling,  and  let  it  out  in  tears. 

The  scaffold  towered  high  above  the  crowd,  a  huge  pile  of  fag- 
gots, lit  at  the  base— a  gigantic  altar  of  sacrifice,  a  fiery  Calvary. 

When  the  flames  uncoiled  themselves  from  below,  and  darted 
upward,  in  angry,  flashing  lengths,  hissing  and  writhing— when 
they  struck  their  sharp  fangs  into  her  flesh,  the  flesh  cried  out 
in  shrieks  that  must  have  echoed  for  ever  through  the  guilty  and 
craven  souls  who  heard. 

Well  had  the  young  martyr  learned  the  self-forgetful  spirit  of 
her  Master.  In  the  fierce  height  of  her  agony,  through  the  flame 
and  smoke  of  her  torment,  she  saw  the  danger  of  the  faithful 
priest  who  held  the  crucifix  before  her,  and  entreated  him  to  leavfi 
her.  He  went ;  he  bore  from  her  sight  the  image  of  her  crucified 
Lord,  but  he  left  beside  her  in  the  midst  of  the  flames,  the  Lord 
himself.  May  not  her  last  cry  of  "Jesus!  "  have  been  not  a  cry 
of  fear,  or  supplication,  but  of  joy  and  recognition,  as  she  sprang 
through  the  fiery  gate  of  martyrdom,  into  the  welcoming  arms  of 
his  compassion,  into  the  bosom  of  his  infinite,  ineffable  love ! 


MF^'  j  ill!  h 


MARGAEET  OF  ANJOU. 


No  wandering  princess  of  poetic  fiction  ever  sustained  more  strangely 
varied  cliances  during  the  course  of  lier  career  tlian  Margaret  of 
Anjou.  Her  fitful  periods  of  happiness  and  prosperity  were  bright 
as  they  were  brief ;  while  the  magnitude  of  reverse  she  experienced, 

"  Downright  violence  and  storm  of  fortunes 
May  trumpet  to  the  world." 

From  her  very  birth,  she  entered  upon  this  extraordinary 
blending  of  the  most  brilliant  circumstances  with  the  most  calami- 
tous events,  which  attended  her  through  life,  chequering  her  exist- 
ence with  alternate  bursts  of  sunshine,  and  long  dreary  watches  of 
deepest  midnight,  until  death  and  the  grave  put  their  final  shadows 
around  her  tempest-tost  body,  opening  a  prospect  of  endless  light 
to  her  soaring  spirit. 

Her  father,  Rene  of  Anjou,  had  claims  to  a  long  train  of  titles  ; 
being  the  second  son  of  Louis  H.,  King  of  Sicily  and  Jerusalem, 
Duke  of  Calabria  and  Anjou,  and  Count  of  Provence.  But  his 
titular  dignities  brought  him  more  harass  than  honour,  and  more 
adversity  than  advantage.  Her  mother  was  Isabella,  heiress  of  Lor- 
raine ;  a  direct  descendant  of  the  renowned  Charlemagne,  and  a 
princess  endowed  with  virtue,  eloquence,  and  beauty.    But  with 


206  MARGARET    OF  ANJOU. 

her  princely  patrimony,  she  brought  tlie  fruitful  evil  of  a  contested 
succession.    Born  of  parents  no  less  distinguislied  by  their  royal 
rank  and  lineage  than  by  their  personal  merits,  their  accomplish- 
ments, love  of  learning,  and  taste  for  poetry  and  art,  Margaret  in- 
herited greatness,  beauty,  and  talent,  as  her  birthright.    She  came 
into  the  world  amid  usbering  grandeur,  at  one  of  the  first  castles  in 
Lorraine,  her  mother's  dower-palace,  on  the  23d  of  March,  1429. 
Her  baptism  took  place  with,  higli  ceremonial  in  the  cathedral  at 
Toul ;  a  bishop  performing  the  sacred  rite,  and  royal  sponsors 
standino;  for  lier  at  the  font.    But  slie  was  still  an  infant,  wken  the 
struggle  arising  from  tke  disputed  succession  to  her  mother's  patri- 
mony of  Lorraine,  called  lier  father  Eene  to  the  field,  that  lie  might 
maintain  his  wife's  claim  against  her  uncle,  Antoine  de  Vaude- 
monte,  who,  on  the  death  of  Charles,  Duke  of  Lorraine,  asserted 
his  title  to  succeed  instead  of  Isabella,  Charles's  grand-daughter. 
Margaret,  before  she  was  two  years  old,  knew  what  it  was  to  be 
held  in  a  weeping  mother's  arms,  to  have  ceaseless  murmurs  of  alarm 
and  anxiety  breathed  over  her,  to  witness  the  tortures  of  suspense 
in  which  Isabella  lived  during  the  absence  of  her  husband,  and  the 
burst  of  anguish  with  which  the  tidings  of  his  defeat  and  capture 
at  the  battle  of  Bulgueville  were  received.   It  was  serving  an  early 
apprenticeship  to  suffering  and  sorrow.     She  learned  thus  soon, 
too,  a  lesson  in  that  spirit  of  resolution  amidst  adversity,  which  so 
signally  distinguished  herself  through  life.   Her  admirable  mother, 
the  affectionate  wife,  the  noble-hearted  duchess,  roused  herself  from 
her  agony  of  grief,  and  went  to  seek  an  interview  with  the  victor, 
that  she  might  strive  to  move  his  pity  on  behalf  of  her  captive 
lord,  and  induce  cessation  of  hostilities.    Her  kinsman,  Antoine  de 
Vaudemonte,  conceded  to  her  prayers  thus  much ;  he  granted  a 
truce  of  six  months ;  but  he  was  unable  to  lil)erate  his  niece's 
husband,  having  given  him  up  to  the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  who  had 


MARGARET    OF  ANJOU. 


201 


imprisoned  Rene  at  Dijon,  in  a  lofty  tower.  Here,  witli  liis  clia- 
racteristic  tranquillity  of  temper,  and  love  of  art,  Margaret's  Pro- 
vencal fatlier  wMled  away  the  hours  of  liis  captivity,  by  applying 
liimself  to  painting ;  and  the  cha]3el  in  the  castle  of  Dijon  still 
contains  several  miniatures  and  specimens  of  painted  glass,  execut- 
ed by  the  tasteful  royal  prisoner.  This  gentle  philosophy  of  seek- 
ing a  resource  from  tedium  and  regret  by  employing  the  ffxculties 
in  artistic  pursuits,  stood  Rene  in  good  stead ;  for  the  Duke  of 
Burgundy  was  so  well  pleased  at  beholding  his  own  portrait 
painted  on  glass  among  the  productions  of  his  accomplished  pris- 
oner, that  he  relented  towards  him,  and  agreed  with  Antoine  de 
Vaudemonte,  that  he  should  be  set  at  liberty.  The  conditions  on 
which  he  was  freed,  were  hard  to  fulfil:  Rene's  eldest  daughter, 
Yolante,  then  but  nine  years  old,  was  to  be  bestowed  in  marriage 
upon  Antoine's  heir,  Ferrand  de  Vaudemonte,  with  a  portion  of 
the  contested  Lorraine  territories  for  her  dowry ;  his  baby  girl, 
Margaret,  was  to  be  betrothed  to  the  Count  St.  Pol,  whose  squire 
had  dealt  the  blow  which  prostrated  her  father  on  the  battle-field 
of  Bulgueville,  leaving  a  scar  that  he  carried  to  his  grave  ;  his  two 
boys  were  to  be  delivered  up  as  hostages ;  and  he  was  under 
covenant  to  pay  a  large  sum  of  money  for  his  ransom.  The  meet- 
ing of  the  oppressed  family,  under  these  circumstances,  was  deeply 
pathetic ;  and  the  scene  affected  the  heart  of  the  child,  Margaret, 
with  a  liveliness  of  emotion  rarely  shown  at  her  tender  years. 
The  old  chroniclers  of  Lorraine  describe  the  sensibility  evinced  on 
this  occasion  by  "the  little  creature"  ["la  petite  creature"],  as 
they  called  Margaret,  to  have  been  extreme.  Even  this  reunion 
with  his  wife  and  children — sad,  and  overshadowed  by  drawbacks, 
as  it  was — proved  but  short-hved.  The  conditions  of  Rene's 
release  were  beyond  his  means  to  fulfil ;  and  he  was  compelled 
again  to  surrender  himself  to  captivity. 


208 


MARGARET    OF  ANJOU 


The  deatli  of  tlie  King  of  Naples,  Rene's  eldest  brother,  caused 
the  succession  to  that  crown  to  devolve  upon  Margaret's  father ; 
and  the  faithful  wife  prepared  to  assert  his  rights  for  him  in  his 
absence.    Gifted  with  heroic  qualities,  with  conjugal  devotion, 
courage,  and  constancy,  the  Duchess  Isabella  ranks  among  the 
eminent  women  of  her  time.    She  was  an  early  appreciater  of  the 
beautiful  and  gifted  Agnes  Sorel,  whose  merits  won  the  friendship 
and  esteem  of  the  queen,  notwithstanding  that  Agnes  rivalled  the 
royal  wife  in  Charles  YII.'s  affections;  and  Isabella  of  Lorraine  had 
been  a  beholder  of  Joan  of  Arc's  noble  conduct.    From  a  mother 
so  endowed  with  moral  energy,  Margaret  inherited  that  high  spirit 
and  indomitable  bravery  of  soul,  which  carried  her  through  such  a 
series  of  vicissitudes  with  ever-renewed  animation  in  strength  and 
purpose;  while  the  early  dwelhng  amidst  perpetually  recurring 
difficulties  and  trials,  inured  her  to  encounter  the  extremes  of 

trouble  and  peril. 

While  taking  measures  for  maintaining  by  force  of  arms  her 
captive  husband's  claims  upon  the  kingdom  of  Naples,  Isabella 
assumed  the  title  of  Queen  of  the  two  Sicilies,  and  repaired  with 
her  children,  Margaret  and  Louis,  to  the  Chateau  of  Tarascon,  on 
the  banks  of  the  Rhone.  The  boy,  Louis,  had  been  no  longer 
retained  as  hostage  when  Rene  had  delivered  himself  up  to  bond- 
age again  ;  and  the  two  beautiful  children,  with  their  mother,  were 
idolized  by  the  poetical  Provencals,  who  fondly  welcomed  among 
them  these  representatives  of  their  captive  prince.  Not  long  were 
they  able  to  enjoy  the  kindly  and  picturesque  homage  which 
attended  them  in  Provence;  that  fearful  epidemic,  the  plague, 
spreading  its  terrors  there,  and  menacing  the  danger  of  Isabella's 
children,  she  hastened  to  remove  them  from  Tarascon,  and  they  set 
sail  for  Naples. 

Finding  the  pestilence  from  which  they  had  fled,  raging  here, 


]M  A  R  G  A  R  E  T 


OF    A  N  J  0  U . 


209 


Isabella  established  her  residence  at  Capua,  the  ancient  palace  of 
the  family  of  Anjou  in  Naples ;  and  lost  no  time  in  causing  her 
absent  husband  to  be  proclaimed  king  of  the  two  Sicilies.  At  this 
ceremony,  the  two  children,  Margaret  and  Louis,  sat  beside  their 
mother  in  the  chair  of  state  they  occupied ;  and  again  the  little 
girl,  Margaret,  passed  through  one  of  those  strange  ejDisodes  of  her 
eventful  life,  when  momentary  splendour  illumined  her  path,  amid 
clouds  of  surrounding  dark  omen.  Her  queenly-acting  mother, 
and  her  distant  caj)tive  father ;  the  triumphal  state  procession, 
amid  pestilential  threats  of  death  hovering  near ;  all  affect  the 
imagination  with  curious  and  oppressive  contrast.  Isabella  spared 
no  exertions  to  effect  Rene's  deliverance;  and  they  produced  a 
treaty  for  his  liberation,  which  involved  a  remarkable  clause.  It 
was  proposed  by  the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  that,  "  to  cement  the 
peace  between  the  two  powers,  Margaret  of  Anjou,  second  daughter 
to  King  Rene,  shall  esj)ouse  the  young  King  of  England ; "  thus 
showing  that  the  English  alliance  was  contemplated  as  early  as 
1435,  when  tlie  intended  bride  was  but  six  years  of  age.  This 
project  was  unsanctioned  by  the  English,  and,  at  this  period, 
opposed  by  Charles  YII. ;  it  was  merely  a  suggestion  of  the  duke's, 
whose  wife,  the  Duchess  of  Burgundy,  was  a  Lancastrian  princess, 
being  daughter  to  the  King  of  Portugal,  by  Philippa,  John  of 
Gaunt's  daughter. 

When  Rene  obtained  his  liberation,  he  made  his  entry  into  Na- 
ples at  the  head  of  a  Provencal  army,  mounted  on  a  superb  white 
charger  ;  and  Isabella,  with  her  children,  removed  from  the  Capuan 
palace  to  the  luxurious  one  adorned  by  the  late  queen,  Joanna  II. 
In  this  voluptuous  Italian  sojourn,  Margaret  remained  for  some 
time,  receiving  her  education  from  her  brother's  tutor,  Antoine  de 
Salle,  under  the  care  and  superintendence  of  her  mother ;  but  this 
period  of  peaceful  instruction,  southern  repose,  and  loving  com- 
27 


210  M  A  R  G  A  E  E  T    0  F    A  N  J  0  U . 

panionsMp,  was  marred  by  tlie  loss  of  lier  brother,  Prince  Louis, 
whose  studies  slie  liad  sliarcd  in  aifectionate  fellowship. 

In  1443,  Margaret  accompanied  her  royal  mother  in  her  return 
to  Lorraine ;  the  contract  of  marriage  between  herself  and  the 
Count  St.  Pol  having  been  broken  off,  and  her  hand  having  been 
since  sought  by  the  Count  de  Nevers,  nephew  to  the  Duke  of  Bur- 
gundy. But  as  the  marriage  articles  contained  a  clause  that  af- 
fected her  sister  Yolante's  claims,  the  French  King,  Charles  YIL, 
interfered  to  prevent  the  union  from  taking  place. 

King  Eene's  patrimony  was  in  a  disastrous  state ;  the  troops 
of  England  occupied  the  territories  of  Anjou  and  Maine,  and  his 
finances  were  reduced  so  low,  that  he  and  his  family  were  in  actual 
penury.  Their  royal  lineage,  their  high-sounding  titles,  served 
only  to  render  then-  needy  plight  the  more  conspicuous ;  but  al- 
though his  wife  Isabella  felt  these  disadvantages  keenly  for  the 
sake  of  their  children,  King  Kene  viewed  them  with  his  usual 
serenity,  retiring  into  Provence,  and  occupying  himself  with  verse- 
writing  and  musical  composition,  for  both  of  which  he  had  a 
talent. 

By  this  time,  Margaret  had  attained  an  age,  when  her  youthful 
attractions  gained  her  wide  repute.  The  courts  of  France  and  Bur- 
gundy rang  with  her  charms  and  accomplishments ;  and  it  was  as- 
serted that  she  not  only  possessed  beauty  and  wit  rarely  equalled, 
but  that  her  father's  misfortunes  had  served  merely  to  give  her  an 
opportunity  of  manifesting  her  lofty  spirit  and  courage.  The  Duke 
of  Burgundy's  learned  chronicler,  Barante,  declared  that  "  there 
was  no  Princess  in  Christendom  more  accomplished  than  my  lady 
Margaret  of  Anjou." 

The  rumour  of  Margaret's  peerless  graces  had  reached  the  ear 
of  the  young  bachelor  king  of  England,  Henry  VL;  and  he  de- 
spatched an  emissary  in  whom  he  could  confide,  to  the  court  of 


M  A  E  G  A  R  E  T    OF    A  N  J  0  U . 


211 


Lorraine,  for  tlie  purpose  of  procuring  a  portrait  of  this  incom- 
paralble  princess.  Tlie  picture  was  obtained;  it  was  painted  Iby 
one  of  the  best  French  artists,  and  did  justice  to  the  fair  original. 
The  gentleman  of  Anjou  who  had  been  entrusted  with  the  royal 
commission,  described  the  daughter  of  his  sovereign  in  glowing 
colours ;  and  his  report  seconded  the  effect  produced  by  the  paint- 
ing. Moreover,  the  king's  great-uncle.  Cardinal  Beaufort,  and  the 
French  monarch,  Charles  VII.,  lent  their  combined  influence  to 
forward  the  proposed  alliance. 

The  cardinal,  who  had  superintended  the  education  of  his  royal 
nephew,  was  aware  of  the  want  of  energy  and  decision  which  formed 
the  defects  in  his  character,  and  he  felt  how  desirable  it  would 
be,  could  Henry's  future  consort  possess  those  qualities  which  might 
supply  the  young  king's  deficiencies ;  and,  besides  that  Margaret's 
I'eputed  endowments  promised  a  fulfilment  of  those  requisites — her 
youth  and  inexperience  afforded  likelihood  that  she  would  prove  a 
valuable  aid  in  promoting  the  cardinal's  views  of  political  influence 
and  power. 

The  King  of  France,  from  a  prospect  of  the  advantages  which 
would  probably  accrue  to  himself  and  kingdom  from  this  union, 
and  from  the  affectionate  partiality  he  bore  his  young  kinswoman, 
— -Margaret  being  niece  to  Charles  VII.'s  queen,  Marie  of  Anjou 
— did  all  in  his  power  to  further  the  marriage. 

Henry  VI.  was  then  in  his  twenty-fourth  year,  handsome,  cul- 
tivated, holy,  and  mild.  He  was  of  scrupulous  morals,  and  bland 
demeanour.  He  is  represented  as  finding  no  allurement  in  illicit 
pleasures  ;  but  earnestly  desirous  of  securing  the  joys  of  wedlock. 

The  young  king's  uncle,  Duke  Humphrey  of  Gloster,  and  his 
great-uncle.  Cardinal  Beaufort,  were  at  issue  in  the  choice  of  a  con- 
sort for  their  royal  kinsman.  The  Duke  of  Gloster  had  a  project 
for  uniting  Henry  to  a  princess  of  the  house  of  Armagnac ;  but  the 


212  M  A  R  G  A  R  E  T    0  F    A  N  J  0  U  . 

bachelor  monarcli's  fancy  liaving  been  deeply  enamoured  by  tlie 
reported  and  pictured  charms  of  Margaret  of  Anjou,  lie  resolved 
upon  obtaining  her  for  liis  queen  at  whatever  cost.  This  cost  was 
the  sacrifice  of  Mauie  and  Anjou  ;  as  the  cession  of  those  provinces 
was  demanded  by  King  Eene,  when  applied  to  for  his  daughter's 
hand. 

After  some  little  hesitation,  this  point,  which  formed  an  indispen- 
sable condition  in  the  marriage  articles,  was  agreed  to ;  and  the 
dowerless  bride,  whose  beauty  and  merits  were  allowed  "  to  out- 
weigh all  the  riches  in  the  world,"  was  accorded  to  the  eager  suit 
of  her  royal  wooer. 

Suffolk,  who  was  raised  to  the  dignity  of  marquis,  and  invested 
with  full  powers  to  espouse  the  lady  Margaret  of  Anjou,  as  proxy 
for  his  sovereign,  set  sail  from  England,  accompanied  by  his  mar- 
chioness, and  a  brilliant  train  of  the  nobility.  The  King  of  France, 
with  the  queen,  and  dauphiness,  attended  by  the  most  distin- 
guished personages  of  the  French  court,  were  assembled  in  Lor- 
raine to  do  honour  to  the  espousals  of  the  youthful  Margaret :  and 
the  ceremonial  took  place  in  the  month  of  November,  1444. 

The  bride's  father,  King  Kene,  had  ample  scope  for  his  taste  in 
pageantry  and  courtly  entertainments ;  a  tournament  was  held  in 
honour  of  the  young  Queen  of  England,  at  which  the  royal  and  il- 
lustrious guests  there  assembled  performed  gallant  passages  of 
arms.  Charles  VII,  broke  a  lance  in  honour  of  his  fair  kinswoman ; 
her  uncle,  Charles  of  Anjou,  Pierre  de  Breze,  Lord  of  Varenne,  and 
the  Count  St.  Pol— formerly  plighted  to  Margaret  in  infancy,  but 
whose  contract  was  subsequently  broken  off— aU  jousted  on  this 
occasion. 

The  fact  that  Suffolk  did  not  appear  in  the  lists,  together  with 
the  circumstance  of  his  age,  which  exceeded  that  of  the  bride's 
father,  may  suffice  to  contradict  the  alleged  passion  which  fiction 


M  AEG  A  RET    OF  ANJOU. 


213 


writers  have  represented  as  existing  between  Margaret  and  her 
royal  bridegroom's  proxy.  In  the  plays  of  Henry  VI.,  the  drama- 
tist has  given  weight  to  the  belief  of  their  mutual  attachment, 
where  he  has  introduced  Suffolk  and  Margaret ;  and  some  histori- 
ans have  confirmed  his  description ;  but  all  authentic  evidence 
seems  to  bear  testimony  that  there  is  no  foundation  for  the 
scandal. 

The  festivities  lasted  for  a  period  of  eight  days,  during  which 
the  throng  of  |)rincely  and  knightly  gallants  wore  badges  of  the 
daisy-flower,  in  compliment  to  the  royal  bride  of  fifteen,  who  had 
chosen  this  flower  for  her  emblem.  Her  name  of  Marguerite — 
which  in  her  native  tongue  signifies  also  a  daisy — ^had  induced  her 
adoption  of  this  symbol.  The  reader  may  be  reminded  of  Chau- 
cer's lines : — 

"  And  at  the  last  there  began  anon 
A  lady  for  to  sing  right  womanly  . 

-  A  bargaret  *  in  praising  of  the  daisy  ; 
For,  as  methought,  among  her  notes  sweet, 
She  said,  '  si  douce  est  la  Marguerite.''  " 

And  also  of  that  anecdote  of  high  poetic  taste  ;  recording  hoAV 
the  princess  Margaret  of  Scotland,  who  married  the  Dauphin  of 
France  (afterwards  Louis  XI,),  sent  a  tribute  to  a  gifted  woman^ 
her  namesake — the  poetess,  Clotilde  Marguerite  de  Surville  ;  the 
dauphiness's  present  consisted  of  a  crown  of  laurel,  surmounted 
by  twelve  daisies,  with  golden  bosses  and  silver  petals,  twined  in 
couples,  bearing  for  device  the  words  : — "  Margaret  of  Scotland  to 
Margaret  of  Helicon." 

The  way  in  which  the  youthful  bride  was  taken  leave  of  by 
her  parents,  friends,  and.  kindred,  bears  witness  to  the  affection 
with  which  she  was  regarded  by  those  who  best  knew  her.  They 


*  Bargaret,  bergerette,  a  little  pastoral. 


MARGARET    OF    A  N  J  0  U . 

Avere  not  pnly  proud  of  lier,  as  one  of  tlie  most  accomplished  and 
Ijeautifiil  young  creatures  of  lier  time ;  but  tliey  were  fondly  at- 
tached to  her  for  her  own  sprightly  graces,  and  attractive  quali- 
ties. The  king,  Charles  VII.,  is  said  to  have  clasped  her  repeat- 
edly in  his  arms,  at  parting  with  her,  and  to  have  bidden  her  adieu 
with  streaming  eyes  and  a  voice  choked  with  sobs.  The  old  chron- 
iclers record  his  very  words,  so  full  of  affectionate  regard  : — "  I 
seem  to  have  done  nothing  for  you,  my  niece,  in  placing  you  on 
one  of  the  greatest  thrones  in  Europe,  for  it  is  scarcely  worthy  of 
possessing  you."  As  for  her  gentle-hearted  father,  King  Kene,  he 
could  only  commend  her  to  God,  and  fold  her  to  his  heart;  neither 
father  nor  daughter  could  utter  one  word,  but  embraced  each  other 
in  speechless  farewell. 

Thus  were  the  splendours  of  her  bridal  followed  by  the  tears 
of  her  friends  and  the  mournfulness  of  parting.  Thus,  too,  were 
the  pomps  of  her  travel  towards  England-— escorted  by  a  royal 
train,  and  protectively  attended  by  the  Marquis  and  Marchioness 
of  Suffolk— but  the  precursors  of  after  miseries.  Through  life  it 
was  Margaret's  fate  to  be  lolaced  on  the  pinnacle  of  fortune,  only 
to  be  precipitated  with  greater  force  into  the  abyss  of  mischance. 
Her  first  landing  in  England  was  heralded  by  a  terrific  storm  ;  the 
cliffs  of  Albion  were  first  visible  to  her  amid  sheeted  lightning  ; 
and  the  shores  resounded  with  peals  of  thunder.  On  arriving,  she 
was  seized  with  a  dangerous  malady,  which  detamed  her  for  a  time 
at  Southampton,  in  a  religious  hospital,  called  "  God's  house  ; "  where, 
with  the  good  old  practice  of  such  establishments,  refuge  was  afford 
ed  to  all  sick  travellers— from  the  humblest  pilgrim  to  royalty  itself 

The  nuptials  of  Henry  VI.  with  Margaret  of  Anjou,  were  sol- 
emnized on  the  22d  of  April,  1445,  in  Tichfield  Abbey,  with 
great  magnificence  ;  and  the  nation,  although  dissatisfied  at  the 
bride's  portionless  condition,  yet  could  not  withstand  the  mingled 


BI  A  R  G  A  R  E  T    OF    A  N  J  0  U . 


215 


impression  of  her  youth,  beauty,  and  noble  presence,  which  pro- 
cured her  an  enthusiastic  reception  wherever  she  appeared.  The 
pojDulace  crowded  to  see  her ;  while  the  nobility  and  chivalry  of 
Eugland  wore  the  emblematic  daisy  fastened  in  their  caps,  on 
coming  to  meet  and  welcome  the  royal  bride  in  her  progress  to 
London.  The  descriptions  of  her  public  entry  into  the  city,  and 
of  her  subsequent  coronation  at  Westminster,  on  the  30th  May,  . 
when  a  tournament  was  held  which  lasted  three  days,  the  lists  oc- 
cupying the  entire  space  between  Palace-yard  and  the  sanctuary, 
show  the  youthful  Margaret  as  forming  the  centre  of  courtly  hom- 
age, and  placed  on  the  summit  of  resplendent  prosperity. 

For  the  time,  Humphrey,  Duke  of  Gloster,  laid  by  his  025j)osi- 
tion  to  his  royal  nephew's  chosen  bride  ;  and  vied  with  the  rest,  in 
marks  of  welcoming  courtesy.  Cardinal  Beaufort,  who  had  been  al- 
ways favourable  to  the  marriage,  now  that  he  learnt  from  personal 
proof  how  amply  the  young  queen  fulfilled  her  repute  in  beauty 
and  spirited  character,  added  fondness  of  liking  to  the  partiality 
which  rose  from  interest  and  policy. 

The  theme  of  universal  admiration,  idolized  by  the  young  king 
hpv  husband,  surrounded  by  the  sumptuous  regality  of  her  posi- 
tion, Margaret  stood  within  the  full  blaze  of  this  period  of  sun- 
shine, which  streamed  upon  her  when  she  first  ascended  the  Eng- 
lish throne  ;  but  her  usual  fate  of  brief  triumph  and  long  disaster, 
of  short-lived  glory  and  dark  reverse,  of  transient  felicity  and 
protracted  trouble,  soon  attended  her.  Like  most  fates  of  individ- 
uals, much  of  its  peculiar  colouring  might  be  traced  to  her  own 
complexion  of  character.  Human  complaint  of  destiny  may  most 
frequently  with  justice  be  resolved  into  self-investigation — if  not 
self-rebuke.  Margaret's  fate,  so  remarkable  in  its  features  of  alter- 
nate light  and  gloom,  will  be  found  to  have  singular  analogy  wifch 
the  characteristics  which  distinguished  her  own  moral  conformation. 


216 


MARGAPtET    OF  ANJOU 


The  stormy  transition  of  lier  fortunes— now  at  the  height  of 
earthly  advantage,  now  plunged  in  the  depths  of  woful  vicissi- 
tude—are curiously  in  keeping  with  the  tempestuous  vehemence 
of  her  own  nature.  A  vivacious  child,  an  indulgently-praised  girl, 
a  spoiled  beauty,  she  grew  into  the  imperious  and  haughty-spirited 


woman. 


At  this  epoch  of  her  career,  she  displayed  the  wilfulness  of 
the  spoiled  beauty.  She  took  pleasure  in  marking  her  remem- 
brance that  the  Duke  of  Gloster  had  originally  opposed  her  mar- 
riage with  Henry,  by  contemptuous  treatment,  by  making  him  feel 
her  superior  influence  over  the  king,  and  by  a  pointed  display  of 
her  preference  for  Cardinal  Beaufort  and  the  Duke  of  Suffolk,  his 
political  opponents. 

Gloster  was  the  idol  of  the  people,  who  had  surnamed  him 
Good  Duke  Humphrey ; "  and  he  was  also  heir  presumptive  to 
the  throne,  Margaret  having  as  yet  brought  Henry  no  child,  al- 
though the  second  year  of  her  marriage  had  arrived.  Cardinal 
Beaufort,  the  Duke  of  Somerset,  his  nephew,  and  the  Duke  of 
Suffolk  at  the  head  of  the  ministry,  were  instrumental  in  having 
the  Duke  of  Gloster  arrested,  on  a  charge  of  high  treason ;  and 
seventeen  days  after  his  arrest  he  was  found  dead  in  his  bed.  No 
marks  of  violence  were  to  be  found  on  his  person;  but  the  sud- 
denness of  his- decease  and  the  well-known  animosity  against  him, 
led  to  suspicions  of  his  having  been  unfairly  dealt  by.  However, 
no  proof  could  be  adduced,  and  not  the  shghtest  contemporary  ev- 
idence implicates  the  queen  in  the  surmised  deed.    Her  disregard 
of  consequences,  when  she  chose  to  avow  predilection  or  avow  dis- 
like, was  her  chief  error ;  and  this  was  more  a  defect  of  judgment 
than  a  fault  against  morality.    It  hurt  herself  rather  than  any  one 
else  ;  for  she  had  to  suffer  its  penalty  to  the  utmost. 

This  heedless  manifestation  of  partiality  it  was,  which  subjected 


M  A  R  G  A  11  E  T 


0  1^    A  N  J  0  U . 


217 


lier  open  display  of  regard  for  Suffolk  to  be  misinterpreted.  After 
Cardinal  Beaufort's  death,  wMcli  followed  immediately  upon  tliat 
of  the  Duke  of  Gloster,  Margaret  transferred  tke  confidential  at- 
tackment  wkick  ske  kad  "borne  tke  experienced  old  statesman,  to 
kim  wko  was  at  present  ker  natural  adviser — tke  Duke  of  Suffollv 
being  now  at  tke  kead  of  tke  cabinet,  and  in  tkis  capacity  tke  ap- 
pointed counsellor  of  tke  crown.  Tkus  considered,  notking  could 
be  more  proper  tkan  Queen  Margaret's  kaving  recourse  to  Suffolk 
for  guidance  ;  but  ker  indiscreet  wilfulness,  ker  youtkful  reckless- 
ness, and  ker  native  impetuosity,  let  ker  pay  no  attention  to  tke 
slanders  it  miglit  give  rise  to,  or  tke  jealousies  it  migkt  awaken. 

Tkere  were  not  wanting  kosts  of  foes  to  asperse  ker  conduct,  and 
take  offence  at  ker  display  of  favouritism.  Tke  Duke  of  York,  Eick- 
ard  Neville,  Earl  of  Salisbury,  and  kis  sou,  tke  Earl  of  Warwick,  were 
all  powerful,  unscrupulous  and  ambitious  nobles,  and  all  inimical  to 
tke  young  queen.  Party  katred  ceased  not  until  it  effected  tke 
downfal  of  Margaret's  earliest  Euglisk  friend,  faitkfal  adkerent, 
and  trusted  minister.  Suffolk  was  arraigned,  arrested,  and  com- 
mitted to  tke  tower.  He  was  sentenced  to  baniskment ;  but  met 
kis  deatk  on  board  a  vessel,  in  wkick  ke  underwent  a  mock  trial  as 
a  traitor,  and  kis  kead,  witk  kis  severed  trunk,  were  flung  upon 
Dover  sands,  wkere  tkey  were  found  by  kis  ckaplain,  wko  gave 
tkem  konourable  burial. 

Ifc  skould  not  be  omitted,  tkat,  during  tke  brief  interval  of 
peace  wkick  permitted  Margaret  to  give  token  wkat  ske  migkt 
kave  proved  kad  ker  reign  been  less  disturbed  by  tke  fatal  evil  of 
war,  ske  effected  some  substantial  good  for  ker  subjects.  Queen's 
College,  Cambridge,  owes  its  foundation  to  Margaret  of  Anjou : 
ske  also  endeavoured  to  encourage  tke  manufacture  of  silken  and 
woollen  goods ;  but  tke  factious  spirit  of  tke  times  rendered  peaceful 
occupation,  and  productive  pursuits,  ill  suited  to  a  people  torn  by 
2S 


2ig  MARGARET    OF    AN  J  OU. 

civil  discord,  and  exhausted  by  foreign  hostilities.  Pestilence  and 
want  added  their  miseries  to  those  of  oppression  and  burdensome 
taxes;  nay,  disease  and  starvation  were  the  necessary  result  of  bad 
government  and  tyrannous  exaction.  Kebellion  broke  out ;  Jack 
Cade,  a  demagogue  leader,  headed  the  insurrection,  and  encamped 
on  Black  Heath  with  his  armed  mob.  Henry  VL  marched  to 
meet  them  ;  and  the  tidings  of  his  approach,  with  fifteen  thousand 
troops,  dispersed  the  insurgents,  who  fled  to  Seven  Oaks. 

Margaret  betrayed  a  weakness  of  alarm  on  this  occasion  little 
consistent  with  the  intrepidity  of  behaviour  which  afterwards  dis- 
tinguished her ;  but  she  was  bewildered  by  fond  apprehensions  for 
her  husband,  whom  she  implored  not  to  endanger  his  person,  by 
pursuing  the  rebels  in  their  flight.  It  was  not  until  she  became  a 
mother  "that  her  affection  and  anxiety  took  the  shape  of  daring. 
Then,  the  haughty  courage  which  was  the  true  quality  of  her  dis- 
position, assumed  that  fierce  and  dauntless  strength,  which  no 
defeat  could  subdue. 

Cade's  rebellion  was  quelled  as  suddenly  as  it  burst  forth ;  and 
there  is  little  doubt,  from  historic  evidence,  that  it  was  the  work 
of  a  higher  faction,  acting  upon  the  goaded  feelings  of  the  populace. 
Most  surging  of  the  dregs  of  the  people,  might  probably  be  traced 
to  the  influence  of  fermenting  variances  among  those  in  the  upper 
rank  in  the  community.  In  the  present  instance,  many  circum- 
stances tend  to  prove  that  the  aspiring  Duke  of  York  was  the  in- 
stigator of  the  revolt.  He  had  thrown  up  his  ofiicial  appointment 
in  Ireland,  and  was  now  advancing  upon  London,  attended  by  a 
retinue  of  four  thousand  men,  and  demanding  of  the  king  in  bold 
terms  that  he  should  summon  a  parliament. 

The  timid  Henry  found  some  consolation  in  the  arrival  of  the 
Duke  of  Somerset  from  his  regency  in  France  at  this  crisis ;  and 
Margaret  was  glad  to  receive  aid  and  counsel  from  him,  as  nephew 


M  A  R  G  A  E  E  T 


OF    A  N  J  0  U . 


219 


of  her  old  adviser,  Cardinal  Beaufort.  But  Somerset  was  un- 
popular among  botL.  Lords  and  Commons,  wlio  attributed  to  him 
the  disasters  in  France  and  Normandy  ;  and  it  was  only  after  hav- 
ing been  impeached,  and  committed  to  tlie  Tower,  by  the  Parlia- 
ment, that  he  was  released  at  the  close  of  the  session,  and  promoted 
to  the  post  formerly  filled  by  Suffolk — that  of  prime  minister — on 
the  exertion  of  all  Margaret's  authority,  seconded  by  the  king's, 
who  |)ersonally  liked  his  kinsman,  Somerset. 

This  nobleman's  violent  temper  was  the  cause  of  hastening 
into  open  feud  the  long-cherished  animosities  that  had  rankled  be- 
tween the  houses  of  York  and  Lancaster,  Historical  tradition 
agrees  in  attributing  to  Somerset  the  act  of  first  plucking  the  red 
rose,  and  desiring  the  by-standers  to  take  each  a  flower  of  that  hue, 
or  a  white  one,  as  token  of  which  cause  he  espoused,  on  the 
memorable  occasion  in  the  Temple  garden,  when  each  man  had  to 
declare  the  party  he  belonged  to.  The  rival  factions  assumed 
those  respective  badges — the  Lancastrians  the  red  rose,  and  the 
Yorkists  the  white  rose ;  and  rarely  did  beautiful  symbol  serve  to 
distinguish  moi'e  deadly  quarrel.  Those  fair  blossoms  witnessed 
the  contentions  which  saturated  English  ground  with  English 
blood  during  two  decades.  For  how  many  ferocious  acts  had  the 
red  rose  to  blush  its  deepest  crimson !  At  how  many  ghastly  deeds 
had  the  white  rose  to  look  its  palest !  Margaret,  with  her  rash 
display  of  will,  adopted  the  sanguine-hued  rose  at  once, — but  too 
fit  emblem  of  her  career  thenceforth,  when  the  field  of  battle,  the 
perishing  of  those  who  fought  for  her,  the  death  of  those  she 
best  loved,  carnage,  ruin,  and  destruction,  were  to  take  the  place 
of  those  morning  years  of  life  when  the  daisy,  in  its  pearly  fresh- 
ness, was  her  chosen  flower. 

Now  that  the  Duke  of  York  stood  forth  in  the  unconcealed 
character  of  armed  dictator  to  the  throne,  Margaret,  and  her 


220  M  A  II  G  A  E  E  T    0  F    A  N  J  0  U . 

minister;  Somerset,  joined  tlieii^  persuasions  to  induce  tlie  king  to 
advance  to  meet  Mm  in  tlie  field.    Henry  yielded  to  tlieir  urging ; 
but  parleyed,  instead  of  figliting,  witli  Ms  assailant.  York's 
demand  chiefly  involved  tlie  summary  punishment  of  Somerset; 
attributing  to  a  desii^e  of  bringing  liim  to  justice  Ms  own  taMng  up 
arms  on  tlie  present  occasion.    Somerset,  wbo  bad  been  liberated 
from  tlie  Tower,  wbere  York  believed  bim  to  be,  was,  by  the 
queen's  provision,  stationed  where  he  could  overhear  the  confer- 
ence between  King  Henry  and  the  Duke  of  York ;  and  upon  hear- 
ing the  latter's  speech,  so  hostile  to  himself,  burst  from  his  lurking- 
place,  defying  York  with  his  usual  ungovernable  violence.  The 
rival  duke  retorted  by  equal  fierceness  ;  accusing  him  of  misrule  in 
France,  and  of  occasioning  the  loss  of  Normandy.    The  king  stood 
by,  in  dismay  at  this  hot  contention  between  the  two  fiery  nobles  ; 
until  York  turned  upon  him,  and  reproached  him  with  having 
broken  his  royal  word.    Henry  had  not  been  made  a  party  to  the 
concealment  of  Somerset  behind  the  arras-hangings  of  the  royal 
pavilion ;  and  he  was  equally  unaccessory  to  the  Duke  of  York's 
arrest,  which  took  place  as  he  left  the  tent,  and  which  was  said  to 
have  been  made  by  command  of  the  queen.    York  was  released, 
on  condition  of  his  swearing  a  solemn  oath  of  fealty  to  the  king ; 
after  which  he  was  allowed  to  retire  to  his  castle  of  Wigmore, 
where  his  son,  the  Earl  of  March,  afterwards  Edward  IV.,  was  rais- 
ing an  army  for  his  rescue. 

Somerset  was  thus  established  in  his  post  at  the  head  of  the 
government ;  and  the  part  Queen  Margaret  had  in  retaining  him 
there,  was  made  the  ground  of  a  similar  calumny  as  the  one  which 
had  been  levelled  against  her  reputation  with  regard  to  his  prede- 
cessor, Suffolk.  But  both  dukes  were  men  past  their  prime  of  life, 
and  both  were  devotedly  attached  to  their  wives.  A  letter  written 
by  the  Duke  of  Suffolk  during  his  imprisonment  in  the  Tower, 


M  A  11  a  A  11  E  T    OF    A  N  J  0  U  .  221 

bears  touching  witness  of  liis  strong  affection  for  Ills  wife,  who  was 
a  grand-daughter  of  the  poet  Chaucer,  and  was  a  favourite  friend  of 
Queen  Margaret ;  while  SorQ.erset's  great  love  for  his  wife  led  him 
even  to  sacrifice  his  honour  to  tenderness  for  her  person  during  the 
period  of  his  regency  in  France.  But  j)arty  feeling,  which  spares 
no  malice,  and  regards  no  probability  in  its  venomous  aspersions, 
did  not  fail  to  seize  upon  any  slander,  however  wildly  unfounded, 
to  fling  upon  a  queen,  who  was  rashly  unheedful  of  giving 
offence. 

In  the  course  of  the  brief  calm  which  succeeded  York's  first 
hostility,  Margaret  gave  her  attention  to  foreign  affairs,  and  caused 
the  warrior,  Talbot,  Earl  of  Shrewsbury,  to  be  sent,  with  such 
troops  as  could  be  levied,  to  the  aid  of  the  English  force  in  Guienne. 
But  factions  at  home,  and  war  abroad,  were  formidable  difficulties 
to  contend  with.  The  queen  lost  her  loyal  adherent,  and  gained 
no  jot  of  advantage.  The  veteran  Talbot  was  hewn  down  in  battle 
at  eighty  years  of  age ;  and  his  death  was  accompanied  by  heaps 
of  his  slain  followers.       -  • 

The  birth  of  Margaret's  son  was  heralded  by  gloomy  events. 
Want  of  success  to  the  English  arms  in  foreign  fields  ;  clamours  of 
discontent  within  the  realm ;  the  loss  of  her  high-souled  mother 
Isabella  of  Lorraine,  with  whom  her  sunnier  years  had  been  spent^ 
who  had  inspired  her  with  all  the  best  points  of  her  character, 
and  the  bereavement  of  whose  maternal  sympathy  was  at  this 
epoch  most  keenly  felt,  by  one  herself  about  to  become  a  mother — 
combined  to  strain  Margaret's  powers  of  endurance  with  cruel  ten- 
sion. But  a  yet  more  bitter  source  of  woe  arose  to  demand  her 
fortitude.  King  Henry  was  attacked  by  a  malady  which  menaced 
him  hereditarily: — he  was  the  grandson  of  Charles  Vlth  of 
France,  who  was  subject  to  mental  disease  at  frequent  intervals. 
Henry,  never  very  strong-headed,  found  the  turmoil  and  fever  of 


222  MARGARET    OF    A  N  J  0  U  . 

difficulty  under  wliich  lie  liad  of  late  years  lived,  too  much  for  Ms 
brain;  and  the  pressure  of  accumulated  perplexities  not  only 
impaired  his  health,  but  produced  aberration  of  reason.  Blame 
has  been  thrown  upon  Margaret's  assumption  of  royal  power  and 
authority,  as  unwomanly ;  but  it  is  more  than  probable  that  she 
best  knew  the  need  there  was  for  supplying  her  husband's  lack  of 
mental  energy.  When  too,  she  has  been  accused  of  promoting  his 
inclination  for  pursuits  more  befitting  a  monk  than  a  monarch,  it  is 
likely  that  the  wife  was  aware  how  incapable  he  was  of  attending 
to  state  business  without  vexation  to  his  quiet  temperament,  and 
injury  to  his  feeble  constitution  ;  and  that  therefore  she  took  upon 
herself  a  discharge  of  duty  which  drew  upon  her  the  imputation 
of  undue,  and  masculine  activity  in  government  affairs. 

.  Henry  YI.  was  in  a  condition  of  unconsciousness,  and  hovering 
between  life  and  death,  when  his  queen  brought  into  the  world 
their  child— the  hapless  Edward  of  Lancaster,  who  seemed  born  to 
fulfil  Margaret's  doom  of  cousociated  brightness  and  bitterness. 
Her  boy's  beauty,  his  excellence,  his  rare  promise  in  every  respect, 
combined  to  gladden  her  motherly  heart  by  forming  the  ideal  of  a 
princely  son ;  while  his  perilous  existence,  and  early  death,  brim- 
med her  cup  of  anguish  to  overflowing. 

At  his  very  birth,  Margaret's  delight  was  dashed  by  counter- 
balancing troubles.  The  parliament  appointed  the  Duke  of  York 
Protector  of  England,  until  such  time  as  the  king  might  be  able  to 
resume  the  reins  of  government,  or  the  infant  prince  should  arrive 
at  years  of  discretion ;  while  her  thoughts  were  divided  between 
loving  attention  to  her  child,  and  anxious  attention  to  her  husband 
in  his  melancholy  state.  She  beheld  her  minister,  Somerset, 
deposed  from  office  by  the  newly-appointed  protector,  and  found 
herself  utterly  deprived  of  regal  controul  during  York's  ascend- 
ency ;  but  she  strove  to  await  calmly  abetter  period;  and  gathered 


MARGARET    OF  ANJOU. 


223 


comfort  from  tending  her  infant  treasure.  She  maintained  the 
form  of  state  in  her  own  person  as  Queen  of  England,  continuing 
to  hold  her  court,  and  grant  audiences,  although  her  cpeenly 
power  was  suspended. 

This  period  of  dignified  patience,  which  so  well  became  the 
royal  Margaret,  though  her  native  impetuosity  of  character  so 
seldom  allowed  her  the  practice  of  it,  was  rewarded  by  a  visible 
amendment  in  the  king's  health,  both  of  body  and  mind.  He  was 
at  length  sufficiently  recovered  for  her  to  risk  the  excitement  of 
presenting  him  their  beautiful  boy;  and  the  father's  haj)piness 
w^as  expressed  in  words  that  manifested  his  proud  satisfaction,  as 
well  as  his  sane  condition  of  mind.  •.  ■ 

The  queen's  joy  w^as  complete :  she  took  prompt  measures  for 
reinstating  Henry  in  the  possession  of  sovereign  authority ;  and 
the  Duke  of  Somerset  was  released  from  the  Tower,  to  resume  his 
post  of  prime  minister.  But,  as  usual,  Margaret's  hour  of  success 
was  transient.  The  Duke  of  York  withdrew  to  the  Welch  border ; 
where,  aided  by  his  powerful  friends  and  kinsmen,  Salisbury  and 
"Warwick,  he  raised  an  army,  and  marched  to  London.  Henry  VI., 
as  was  his  w^ont,  tried  what  treating  with  the  foe  would  do,  before 
encountering  him  in  battle  : — he  accordingly  sent  a  messenger  to 
the  Duke  of  York,  asking  wherefore  he  came  in  hostile  array 
against  him.  York  refused  to  lay  down  his  arms,  unless  the  Duke 
of  Somerset  were  dismissed  from  the  council-board,  and  broug-ht  to 
justice.  This  drew  from  the  king  a  spark  of  Plantagenet  fire ;  for 
with  the  sole  imprecation  he  was  ever  known  to  utter,  he  ex- 
claimed, "  that  he  would  as  soon  deliver  up  his  crown,  as  the  Duke 
of  Somerset,  or  the  least  soldier  in  his  army ;  and  that  he  would 
treat  as  a  traitor  every  man  who  should  presume  to  fight  against 
him  in  the  field." 

The  Earl  of  Warwick  gave  the  signal  for  attack,  by  leading  on 


224  M  A  R  G  A  11  E  T    0  F    A  N  J  0  U  . 

Ills  men  with  tlie  war-cry  of  "A  Warwick!   A  Warwick!"  The 
battle  was  "brief,  but  furious ;  and  after  horrible  slaughter  on  both 
sides— the  fight  taking  place  in  the  narrow  streets  of  St.  Albans  ,— 
York  became  the  victor.    King  Henry's  conduct  was  character- 
istic :  he  stood  meekly  under  his  own  standard  during  the  combat ; 
was  wounded  in  the  neck  by  an  arrow;  waited  quietly  till  he 
found  himself  the  only  man  left  beneath  the  royal  banner ;  and 
then  walked  composedly  into  a  baker's  shop  near  at  hand.  The 
Duke  of  York  came  to  him  there,  and  with  ruffianly  want  of  deli- 
cacy, and  want  of  feeling,  bade  him  "rejoice,  for  the  traitor, 
Somerset,  was  slain."    Henry,  with  holy  mildness,  and  the  charity 
for  his  species  which  distinguished  him,  and  made  him  ever  hold 
l;)loodshed  in  horror,— characteristics  more  especially  becoming  him 
at  this  juncture,  when  he  had  just  proved  that  he  did  not  want  for 
spirit  upon  his  kingly  honour  being  insulted ;  nor  for  courage  in 
exposing  his  own  person  to  danger— replied  by  the  words  : — "  For 
God's  sake  stop  the  slaughter  of  my  subjects  1  " 

The  news  of  the  blow  which  the  royal  cause  had  sustained  by 
defeat  in  the  battle  of  St.  Albans,  stunned  Queen  Margaret  into 
despairing  grief.  She  saw  her  husband  dangerously  wounded,  and 
reduced  to  his  former  insane  condition  ;  for  pain  and  agitation  had 
brought  on  a  relapse  of  his  malady.  He  was  pronounced  incapa- 
ble of  attending  to  public  business ;  the  Duke  of  York  ruled  in 
the  king's  name  ;  and  the  parliament,  composed  of  Margaret's  ene- 
mies, passed  a  censure  upon  her  late  government. 

Henry,  wholly  in  the  Duke  of  York's  power,  was  constrained  to 
confirm  his  appointment  to  the  protectorate ;  although,  notwith- 
standing his  reason  was  deranged,  he  manifested  extreme  uuAvill- 
ingness  to  the  step ;  and  York,  once  having  secured  the  executive 
command,  allowed  lilargaret  the  custody  of  the  king's  person,  and 
caused  her  to  remove  from  London  with  her  husband,  and  the  in- 


M  A  11  G  A  E  E  T    OF    A  N  J  0  U . 


225 


fant  prince.  She  applied  herself  to  tlie  care  of  these  helpless  ones, 
giving  them  all  dutiful  attention;  while  secretly,  she  sought  to 
strengthen  their  interest,  and  sustain  theii*  cause,  by  maintaining 
constant  intercourse  with  the  red-rose  party.  All  the  Lancastrians, 
— including  those  who  were  allied  to  the  royal  blood,  those  of 
noble  and  gentle  birth,  and  those,  whose  fathers  having  been  slain 
at  St.  Albans,  were  eager  to  avenge  their  fate, — Margaret  con- 
trived to  hold  communication  with,  making  herself  their  rallying 
point. 

Thus  prepared,  the  queen  lost  no  time,  the  instant  her  consort's 
restoration  to  health  afforded  opportunity,  in  causing  him  to  pre- 
sent himself  suddenly  before  his  parliament.  Unknown  to  the  Duke 
of  York  this  step  was  arranged ; — and  on  the  24th  February,  1456, 
the  king  entered  the  House  of  Lords,  when  York,  and  the  princi- 
pal members  of  his  faction  were  absent,  declaring : — "  that  being 
now,  by  the  blessing  of  God,  in  good  health,  he  did  not  think  his 
kingdom  was  in  any  need  of  protection,  and  requested  permission  to 
resume  the  reins  of  empire."  The  Parliament,  taken  by  surprise 
at  this  unexpected  appearance  of  their  Sovereign  among  them,  and 
struck  with  the  collected  and  dignified  manner  of  his  address,  im- 
mediately acceded  to  his  desire.  King  Henry  thereupon  sent  to  the 
Duke  of  York,  requiring  his  resignation  of  office.  This  decisive 
measure  of  the  queen's,  (for  it  was  all  her  act,)  left  her  enemies  no 
course  but  to  submit  for  the  time  being ;  and  York,  Salisbury,  and 
"Warwick,  withdrew  into  the  j^rovinces. 

With  her  usual  pertinacious  exercise  of  will,  Margaret  ap- 
pointed Henry  Beaufort,  heir  to  the  late  Duke  of  Somerset,  as 
prime  minister. 

It  was  by  such  marked  acts  of  imperious  resolve,  upon  every 
fresh  opportunity  of  showing  her  power,  that  Margaret  ever  pro- 
voked hostility  and  aversion.    She  seemed  determined  to  oppose, 
29 


226  MARGARET    OF  ANJOU. 

instead  of  conciliate  lier  adversaries ;  and  that  conduct  never  wins 
a  nation's  regard-especially  in  a  female  sovereign.    Margaret  not 
only  gave  lier  enemies  occasion  to  asperse  her,  but  she  weakened 
the  approval  and  confidence  of  the  people.    Even  at  this  period 
when,  in  many  respects,  she  exercised  wise  and  able  rule,  her 
vehement  disposition,  and  impetuous  temper,  caused  her  to  irritate 
the  Londoners  by  untimely  interference  and  constraint:  and  al- 
though she  won  respect  and-esteem  by  the  way  in  which  she  ful- 
filled her  conjugal  and  maternal  duties,-devising  every  means  of 
calminc.  her  royal  partner's  easily-disturbed  mind  by  the  means  of 
music  Ind  other  genial  recreations,-yet,  her  want  of  judgment  m 
knowing  how  properly  to  influence  the  public  mind,  prevented  her 
gaining  as  much  popular  favour  as  her  many  high  qualities  de- 
served   Her  talents  were  marred  by  want  of  tact :  she  was  indis- 
creetly rash;  and  injudiciously  resentful.    A  less  clever  woman 
with  more  prudence  would  have  won  more  liking  from  her  sub- 
jects ;  a  less  spirited  woman  with  more  discretion  would  have 
inspired  greater  confidence  and  attachment. 

Meanwhile  France  and  Scotland  took  advantage  of  England's 
internal  divisions  to  attack  her;  and  the  queen  was  compelled  to 
promote  reconciliation  between  the  antagonist  parties  at  home  m 
order  to  meet  the  threatened  assaults  from  abroad.    A  general 
pacific  congress  took  place ;  wherein  York,  Salisbury,  Warwick, 
of  the  white-rose  faction;   and  Margaret,  Exeter,  the  Percys, 
and  the  Koyal  family,  as  representatives  of  the  red-rose  interest,  as 
sembled  in  the  capital,  and  a  solemn  covenant  was  pledged  by 
these  conflicting  elements,-water  and  fire  themselves,  not  more 
antagonist  to  amalgamation. 

Innumerable  rancours,  discords,  and  difficulties  necessarily  arose ; 
while  Henry,  leaving  his  queen  to  solve  as  she  best  might  the  prob- 
lem of  their  arrangement,  retired  to  the  abbey  of  St.  Albans. 


MAKGAEET    OF    ANJOU.  227 

Mutual  recrimination  kindled  into  tumult  and  sedition;  and  at 
length  flamed  to  sucli  height  as  afforded  pretext  to  the  three  great 
factious  leaders,  York,  Salisbury,  and  Warwick,  to  burst  once 
more  into  open  aggression  against  the  house  of  Lancaster. 

At  Northampton,  York's  son,  Edward,  Earl  of  March,  attacked 
the  Lancastrian  host;  and  ten  thousand  English  strewed  their 
native  earth ;  while  King  Henry  was  taken  prisoner,  and  Margaret 
with  her  princely  boy,  fled  for  refuge  to  a  remote  fortress  in  North 
"Wales. 

In  the  hands  of  his  foes,  Henry  became  a  mere  passive  victim. 
He  was  made  to  surrender  his  son's  claims  to  the  royal  succession 
of  England,  with  the  empty  permission  to  retain  the  crown  during 
his  own  lifetime.  News  of  this  fatal  abandonment  of  their  child's 
birthright  reached  Margaret ;  but  instead  of  quelling  her  spirit 
into  despondency,  it  roused  it  into  exertion.  She  went  straight  to 
the  court  of  Scotland,  succeeded  in  obtaining  succours  from  the 
monarch  there — who  had  Lancastrian  blood  in  his  veins — and  took 
her  measures  with  such  promptitude  and  vigour  that  she  led  the 
red-rose  army,  reinforced  by  the  best  strength  of  the  northern 
counties  of  England,  to  the  field,  before  the  Yorkists  knew  that 
she  was  approaching.  Beneath  the  walls  of  Sandal  Castle,  Mar- 
garet, at  the  head  of  eighteen  thousand  men,  defied  the  Duke  of 
York  to  come  forth  and  do  battle  with  her.  The  practised  soldier, 
stung  by  this  challenge  from  a  woman,  and  not  greatly  believing 
that  either  military  skill  or  warlike  valour  were  hers,  quitted  his 
stronghold,  and  met  the  queen's  commanders,  Somerset,  Wiltshire, 
and  Clifford,  on  the  plain.  York  was  killed,  his  army  routed  ;  and 
the  ferocious  Clifford,  after  slaying  the  young  Earl  of  Rutland  in 
cold  blood,  struck  the  duke's  head  from  his  body,  crowned  it  with 
paper,  and  presented  it  on  the  point  of  a  lance  to  Queen  Margaret, 
with  a  light  speech  of  derision.    It  is  recorded  that  she  at  first 


228  M  A  R  a  A  R  E  T    OF    A  N  J  0  U  . 

sliudderecl  and  turned  pale,  "but  afterwards— lauglied  / 
But  it  is  not  iuipossible  that  tliis  might  have  been  an  hysterical 
agitation— the  result  of  mingled  emotions  of  excitement ;  of  resent- 
ment, of  physical  disgust  at  the  ghastly  sight,  with  crowding 
thoughts  of  the  enmity  long  borne  to  her  husband,  her  boy,  and 
herself,  by  him  whose  pale  face  now  lay  crowned  in  mockery  at 
her  foot.  It  is,  however,  but  too  true,  that  she  ordered  this  horri- 
ble trophy  of  her  triumph  to  be  placed  over  York  gates ;  adding— 
with  the  headlong  arrogance  which  disgraced  her  demeanour  in 
the  hour  of  success— that  she  desired  "  room  might  be  left  between 
the  heads  of  York  and  Salisbury  for  those  of  the  Earls  of  March 
and  Warwick,  which  she  mtended  should  soon  keep  them  com- 
pany." 

Fluctuating  fortune  attended  the  arms  of  the  red  rose  and  the 
white  rose  for  some  time,  during  which  Margaret  maintained  the 
rights  of  her  royal  husband  and  son  with  unflinching  courage  and 
constancy,  through  alternate  prosperity  and  disaster.  In  the  course 
of  an  appeal  to  France— where  her  crafty  cousin,  Louis  XI.,  now 
reigned— Margaret's  gradually -sinking  cause  was  espoused  by  the 
chivalrous  Pierre  de  Breze,  who  attached  himself  to  her  service 
with  an  enthusiasm  and  devotion,  fervent  to  a  degree  of  romance. 
He  had  been  minister  and  favourite  to  Margaret's  uncle,  Charles 
VIL:  he  had  appeared  in  the  lists  at  her  bridal  tournament  as  a 
champion  of  the  "douce  Marguerite,"  the  "gentle  daisy-flower,"  in 
the  time  of  her  youthful  beauty  and  happiness;  and  now  that  she 
came  a  forlorn  wanderer,  a  princess  bereft  of  crown  and  kingdom, 
suing  for  aid  on  behalf  of  her  husband  and  child  despoiled  of  their 
rights,  De  Brez6  proffered  his  knightly  duty  with  an  ardour  as 
much' surpassing  his  former  homage,  as  the  battle  exceeds  the 
joust. 

This  gallant  gentleman  fought  for  Queen  Margaret  in  the 


MARUAllET    OF  ANJOU. 


229 


bloody  field  of  Hexham  ;  from  wliich.  she,  in  mortal  terror  for  her 
son's  life,  fled  witli  him  on  foot  ttrongli  the  neighbouring  forest, 
until  encountered  by  a  band  of  freebooters ;  whose  cupidity  l^eing 
awakened  by  the  rich  attire  of  the  fugitive  mother  and  child,  pos- 
sessed themselves  of  their  jewels  and  more  valuable  apparel.  While 
the  men  were  disputing  over  the  division  of  the  booty,  Margaret 
snatched  her  boy  up  in  her  arms,  and  sped  away  from  the  maraud- 
ers ;  but  upon  meeting  with  another  of  the  troop,  alone,  she  sum- 
moned her  usual  spirit  and  self-possession ;  stepped  forward  with 
her  little  son  in  her  hand,  and  presenting  him  to  the  robber, 
exclaimed : — "  Here,  my  friend,  save  the  son  of  your  king ! "  The 
man,  struck  with  her  beauty  and  majesty,  as  well  as  with  the 
boy's  interesting  and  helpless  appearance,  turned  his  aspect  of 
menace  into  protection  ;  and  led  them  to  a  cave,  where  he  sheltered 
them  for  two  days.    Local  tradition  has  preserved  record  of  the 
exact  spot — a  low  cave  in  Hexham  forest;  and  here  they  were 
discovered  by  the  faithful  knight,  Sir  Pierre  de  Breze,  who,  with 
his  squire,  Barville,  had  been  seeking  the  queen  with  sleepless 
diligence.    On  taking  leave  of  the  outlaw  and  his  wife,  Margaret 
poured  forth  her  thanks,  as  all  she  had  left  to  bestow ;  while  her 
adherents  would  have  added  some  reward  from  their  own  scanty 
supply  of  money ;  but  the  worthy  couple,  with  a  generosity  and 
delicacy  that  would  have  honoured  any  station,  declined  receiving 
what  must  be  so  needful  to  the  little  band  of  royal  fugitives  in 
their  wanderings;  and  the  queen,  whose  own  nature  made  her 
peculiarly  able  to  appreciate  dignity  of  feeling,  exclaimed,  "  Of 
all  I  have  lost,  I  regret  nothing  so  much  as  the  power  to  recom- 
pense such  virtue." 

Margaret  and  the  young  prince,  with  their  loyal  friends,  hast, 
ened  to  Carlisle  and  thence  to  Kircudbright.  Here,  the  queen, 
whose  royal  bearing  and  beauty  made  her  unable  to  elude  obser- 


230  MARGARET    OF    A  N  J  0  U  . 

vation,  was  recognized  by  a  Yorkist  partisan  ;  and  lie  lost  no  time 
in  securing  the  persons  of  the  wanderers.    Margaret's  noble  pro- 
tector, De  Breze,  and  Ms  squire,  were  seized  and  hurried  on  board 
a  vessel ;  while  the  queen  and  her  young  son  were  also  conveyed 
thither  :  though  until  the  dawn  of  morDing  light,  they  were  seve- 
rally unaware  of  their  having  been  captured.    But  De  I^reze,  who 
among  his  other  knightly  qualities,  possessed  that  of  uncommon 
personal  strength,  had  succeeded  in  freeing  himself  from  his  bonds 
during  the  night ;  and  when  he  had  effected  the  same  liberation 
for  his  squire,  the  two  set  upon  the  boat's  crew ;  and  after  a  despe- 
rate struggle,  in  which  they  slew  some,  and  threw  others  over- 
board, they  remained  masters  of  the  craft.    A  gale  was  blowing  ; 
and  after  tossing  some  hours  in  the  Solway  Frith,  the  boat  was 
driven  on  a  sandbank,  near  Cantyre  ;  and  it  was  only  by  De 
Breze's  wading  through  the  breakers,  and  bearing  the  queen  to 
the  shore,  while  Barville  carried  the  young  prince  in  his  arms, 
that  they  succeeded  in  landing  safely.    Margaret  took  refuge  in 
one  of  the  obscure  hamlets  of  this  wild  district,  under  the  guardian 
care  of  De  Breze;  while  Barville  went  to  gather  tidings  of  the 
then  condition  of  Lancastrian  hopes.    It  was  such  as  to  leave 
Margaret  no  other  chance  for  the  present,  than  to  stand  aloof,  and 
abide  the  coming  of  better  times.    She,  with  her  son  and  a  small 
retinue,  who  clung  to  their  royal  mistress,  embarked  for  Flanders, 
where  some  of  the  red-rose  party  had  taken  refuge;  but  the  foul 
weather,  which  invariably  attended  Margaret's  expeditions  with  a 
gloom  of  disaster  similar  to  that  which  perpetually  overshadowed 
her  fortunes  in  her  progress  through  life,  assailed  her  on  the  pres- 
ent occasion.    A  tempest  arose  of  such  violence,  that  every  mo- 
ment threatened  destruction ;  and  when  the  rage  of  the  hurricane 
had  somewhat  subsided,  the  ship  was  compelled  to  put  into  port 
on  the  dominions  of  Margaret's  hereditary  enemy,  the  Duke  of 


MAEGAKET    OF  ANJOU. 


23] 


Burgundy.  However,  slie  was  received  witli  respect,  and  provided 
not  only  with  honourable  escort  to  the  south,  but  with  a  pecuniary 
supply,  when  it  had  been  made  known  how  ill.  able  she  was  to 
requite  the  aid  she  had  received  from  her  faithful  Lancastrian  fol- 
lowers, the  ladies  of  her  train,  and  those  loyal  champions  who  had 
lost  their  all  in  her  service. 

The  affairs  of  the  poor  old  Provencal  King,  Eene,  were  in  no 
condition  to  offer  his  hapless  daughter  more  than  a  bare  asylum 
in  her  adversity ;  but  this  he  made  her  welcome  to,  with  all  the 
simplicity  and  gentle  philosophy  which  characterized  him.  There 
Margaret  remained  for  seven  years,  watching  the  growth  and  im- 
provement of  her  boy,  under  the  judicious  education  of  Sir  John 
Fortescue,  who  devoted  himself  to  the  young  prince's  instruction. 
History  records  nothing  farther  of  Sir  Pierre  de  Breze,  after  his 
attending  Queen  Margaret  in  safety  to  the  court  of  Burgundy. 

Meanwhile,  King  Henry  had  been  subjected  to  ignominious 
imprisonment  in  the  Tower ;  and  the  reigning  sovereign,  Edward 
IV.,  evinced  a  dread  of  Margaret's  well-known  courageous  spirit 
of  perseverance,  by  maintaining  a  kind  of  coast-guard,  to  pre- 
vent her  making  a  sudden  descent  upon  the  English  shores.  It 
has  been  affirmed  that  Margaret  did  visit  Britain  during  the  peri- 
od, in  the  disguise  of  a  priest,  in  the  train  of  the  Archbishop  of 
Narbonne ;  and  such  an  adventure  would  by  no  means  be  improb- 
able, from  a  woman  of  her  romantic  boldness  and  impetuosity  of 
character. 

In  the  year  1469,  she  came  forth  from  her  retirement,  and  re- 
paired with  Prince  Edward  to  Tours  ;  where  a  family  royal  meet- 
ing was  held  for  the  purpose  of  taking  into  consideration  the  best 
means  of  once  again  striving  to  uphold  the  Lancastrian  cause.  It 
was  on  this  occasion,  that  the  wily  and  cold-blooded  Louis  XI. 
contrived  to  win  the  haughty-spirited  Margaret  into  a  politic  re- 


233  M  A  K  G  A  11  E  T    0  F   A  N  J  0  U . 

conciliation  witli  lier  ancient  foe,  tlie  Earl  of  Warwick,  surnamed 
"tlie  Idnff-maker  :"  wlio  liad  broken  witli  tlie  Yorkist  party,  and 
was  ready  to  engage  in  dethroning  Edward  IV.    Witli  tlie  great- 
est difficulty,  Margaret  was  prevailed  upon  to  pardon  Warwick : 
but,  once  granted,  tlie  cat-like  Louis  seized  upon  tkis  concession,  to 
make  it  the  ground  for  proposing  an  alliance  between  ker  son. 
Prince  Edward,  and  tke  Earl's  youngest  daughter,  the  Lady  Anne. 
At  first  nothing  could  induce  Margaret  to  listen  to  this  suggestion ; 
she  treated  it  with  open  contempt;  but  at  length,  upon  being 
urged  by  the  counsellors  of  her  father.  King  Bene,  gave  her  con- 
sent.   The  marriage  took  ])lace  the  next  year ;  and  the  year  suc- 
ceeding that.  Queen  Margaret  hearing  that  Warwick  had  obtained 
the  freedom  of  her  royal  husband,  and  had  re-possessed  him  of  his 
kingdom,  she  prepared  to  set  sail  for  England.    But,  as  usual,  the 
w-eather  put  on  its  most  frowning  aspect,  when  Margaret's  enter- 
prises were  at  stake.    Perpetually  beaten  back,  the  elements 
seemed  to  act  in  concert  against  her  fleet,  to  prevent  its  reaching 
the  English  shores.    Three  times  did  she  put  forth  from  Harfleur, 
before  she  could  get  to  sea ;  and  when  there,  sixteen  wearisome 
days  and  nights  did  the  queen  pass  in  a  fever  of  burning  impa- 
tience, tossing  about  the  channel,  vainly  striving  to  make  the  pas- 
sage.   At  last,  she  landed  but  to  hear  the  fatal  tidings  of  the 
death  of  Warwick,  and  the  recapture  of  the  king,  Henry,  at  the 
battle  of  Barnet ;  and  scarcely  had  she  revived  to  entertain  hopes 
from  the  last  brave  struggle  of  the  Lancastrian  party,  at  the  field 
of  Tewkesbury,  than  she  was  stricken  into  life-long  despair  by  the 
news  of  her  princely  son's  overthrow  and  death  there. 

Margaret  of  Anjou,  with  the  youthful  widow  of  her  Edward, 
were  brought  in  the  train  of  the  victor  to  London ;  where,  im- 
mured in  the  dungeons  of  the  Tower,  she  became  a  widow  on  the 
night  of  her  arrival— King  Henry  having  been  murdered  there, 
that  same  time,  by  Richard,  Duke  of  Gloster. 


MARGAKET    OF  ANJOU. 


233 


After  a  period  of  blank  desolation,  Margaret  was  ransomed  by 
her  kindly  old  father,  King  Eene,  at  the  sacrifice  of  his  inheritance 
of  Provence,  which  he  ceded  to  the  griping  claw  of  Louis  XI.  for 
half  its  value,  in  order  to  rescue  his  daughter  from  caj)tivity.  Be- 
reaved, heart-broken,  dead  to  all  living  interests,  the  once  high- 
spirited  Margaret  passively  signed  a  formal  renunciation  of  all  her 
claims  upon  England,  and  took  her  way  to  her  old  Provencal 
home ; — that  spot  she  had  quitted  in  all  the  beauty  and  brilliancy 
of  hope,  youth,  and  royal  fortune. 

Sir  Walter  Scott's  fine  picture  of  the  red-rose  queen  at  this  pe- 
riod of  her  withered  life,  in  his  romance  of  "  Anne  of  Geierstein," 
is  conceived  with  rich  fancy.  Bnt  forcibly  as  it  pourtrays  her  pas- 
sionate despair,  the  fearful  reality  of  historic  truth  outdoes  its  im- 
pressive delineation.  The  records  of  the  chroniclers  represent  her 
as  utterly  and  awfully  changed  in  person  by  the  torture  of  her 
inward  anguish : — the  whole  mass  of  her  blood  turned  ;  her  eyes, 
once  so  bright  and  flashing  with  expression,  now  hollow,  dim,  and 
inflamed  from  incessant  weeping : — her  skin  disfigured  by  a  dry, 
scaly  leprosy,  which  converted  this  once  renownedly  beautiful 
princess  into  a  spectacle  of  horror. 

Scott  has  given  her  a  picturesque  death,  amid  the  (to  her) 
most  distasteful  recreations  of  her  artistically  disposed  old  father ; 
but,  in  fact,  she  survived  him,  though  only  for  a  short  period — ex- 
piring in  her  fifty-first  year. 

The  anachronisms  and  inaccuracies  committed  in  the  three  parts 
of  Henry  VI.,  form  one  of  the  testimonies  against  their  being  the 
production  of  Shakespeare.  He  who  so  strictly  adhered  to  the 
spiiit  and  almost  to  the  letter  of  history,  making  its  facts  available 
in  dramatic  purpose,  and  rarely  violating  them,  save  for  express 
requirement,  would  never  have  so  misplaced  events  as  are  there 
transposed.  Far  less  would  he  so  thoroughly  have  misrepresented 
80 


234  MARaARETOFANJOU. 

and  degraded  tlie  Mgli-spirited  Margaret,  by  making  lier  the  grossly 
lawless  wife  and  termagant  Amazon  wbich  she  .appears  in  those 
plays.  He  never  penned  that  Billingsgate  altercation  between  the 
famed  Princess  of  Anjou  and  the  Duchess  of  Gloster  in  the  3d 
scene  of  the  1st  Act  of  the  second  of  those  dramas.  Isolated  pas- 
sages in  them,  it  is  true,  wear  his  manner ;  but  the  whole  conduct 
of  the  three  plays  has  little  of  his  system  of  Art.  But  the 
character  of  the  dethroned  queen,  as  she  subsequently  appears  in 
the  tragedy  of  Kichard  III.,  lurking  near  the  purlieus  of  the  dis- 
mal Tower,  invoking  curses  upon  Iter  triumphant  foes,  roaming  to 
and  fro,  with  wearied  yet  restless  pace,  around  the  scenes  of 
her  lost  greatness,  like  some  cub-bereft  lioness,  is  indeed  true  to 
the  style  of  the  prince  of  poets ;  and  that  one  epithet  where  she 
speaks  of 

"  Hastings,  Rivers,  Vaugban;  Grey, 
Untimely  smotber'd  in  their  dusky  graves,'''' 

stamps  the  portrait  as  being  from  his  master-hand. 

The  story  of  Margaret  of  Anjou,  is  pregnant  with  lessons  in 
moral  conduct.  Arbitrary  during  her  seasons  of  authority  and 
power,  arrogant  in  success,  imprudent  in  emergency,  vindictive  in 
wrong,  she  forfeits  the  respect  which  her  courageous  dignity  amid 
adversity  would  otherwise  inspire. 

Her  eventful  course  is  picturesquely  in  keeping  with  her  indi- 
vidual nature.  The  tempestuous  weather  which  attended  her 
movements,  and  the  murky  storm-clouds  of  calamitous  fate  which 
perpetually  hung  over  her  life's  career,  are  akin  to  the  stormy 
grandeur  of  her  own  character. 


■  ♦ 


ISABELLA  OF  CASTILE. 


Isabella  of  Castile  is  a  noble  instance  of  a  character  based  upon 
principle.  Her  nature  was  full  of  fine  impulses ;  but  her  acts  were 
tbe  result  of  principle.  Her  heart  first  dictated  lier  conduct,  tlien 
lier  reason  approved  it ;  and  tlie  result  was,  a  woman  and  princess 
of  almost  matchless  excellence.  Her  reign  was  an  era  in  her 
•country,  and  left  lasting  blessings  to  mark  its  existence.  Her 
affections  were  j)ure ;  her  passions  were  lofty.  Love  for  her  people, 
with  love  of  her  husband  and  children,  a  tender  reverence  for  her 
mother,  and  constancy  of  attachment  towards  her  chosen  friends, 
formed  her  fondest  feelings;  while  a  thirst  for  glory  was  her 
strongest  desire.  She  possessed  natural  qualities  which  enabled 
her  to  achieve  glory ;  she  was  surrounded  by  circumstances  from 
youth  that  fostered  her  native  powers  of  mind,  and  her  life 
abounded  with  events  that  both  matured  her  innate  qualifications 
and  ministered  to  her  propensities  for  glory.  She  was  an  example 
of  those  who  owe  less  to  book-learning  than  to  life-learning.  She 
had  powers  of  observation  which  rather  took  aliment  from  vital 
occurrences,  than  from  written  precepts ;  and  she  acquired  her 
education  rather  from  her  own  experience  than  from  set  lessons. 
Withal,  she  had  the  fine  sense  to  supply  whatever  deficiencies 
early  teaching  might  have  left,  by  her  own  subsequent  diligence  in 


236  ISABELLA    OF  CASTILE. 

acqumng  sncli  knowledge  as  slie  felt  needful.    Several  modern 
languages  slie  was  acquainted  witli,  and  was  an  elegant  mistress  of 
her  own;  but  being  uninstructed  in  tlie  Latin  tongue,  slie  resolved 
to  accomplisli  lierself  in  wliat  was  at  tliat  time  so  mucli  used  as  a 
medium  of  intercourse  between  learned  men,  and  for  tlie  purposes 
of  international  diplomacy  and  negotiation.  Amidst  lier  multiform 
state  avocations,  slie  found  time  to  gain  in  less  than  a  year  a  suffi- 
cient mastery  of  Latin,  to  enable  lier  to  comprehend  readily  what- 
ever was  written  or  spoken  in  that  language.  What  maybe  called 
her  practical  education,  was  derived  through  the  school  of  actual 
circumstance  which  surrounded  her  from  childhood.     She  was 
born  in  1450  ;  and  was  the  daughter  of  John  IL,  King  of  Castile, 
by  a  second  marriage.    Her  father's  son,  by  the  first  marriage, 
Henry  IV.,  surnamed  "  the  Impotent,"  succeeded  to  the  throne; 
and  during  his  humiliating  reign,  Isabella  had  an  opportunity  of 
gathering  those  first  seeds  of  state  training,  which  afterwards 
germinated  into  such  goodly  harvest  of  garnered  wisdom  in  policy 
and  government.  From  the  disorders  which  disgraced  her  brother's 
period  of  rule— or  rather  misrule,  and  from  the  spirit  of  faction 
which  ran  high  among  the  grandees  and  court  officials,  Isabella 
quietly  drew  those  instructive  lessons  of  discretion  and  foresight 
which  afterwards  stood  her  in  such  good  stead  when  she  herself 

was  called  to  reign. 

Her  earliest  years,  after  her  father's  death,  were  spent  in  retire- 
ment with  her  mother  ;  and  here  she  imbibed  that  devout  regard 
for  religion,  which  influenced  her  so  powerfully  through  life.  On 
the  birth  of  the  infanta  Joanna,  Henry  brought  Isabella  and  her 
young  brother  Alfonso  to  inhabit  the  palace,  lest  the  factious 
nobles  might  make  either  of  them  the  object  of  a  party,  to  the 
prejudice  of  Joanna's  claims;  but  the  seductive  pleasures  of  a  court 
-where  levity  and  license  were  but  thinly  veiled  by  splendour  and 


ISABELLA    OF  CASTILE. 


237 


magnificence — had  no  power  to  undermine  tlie  morals  of  one  wliose 
virtue  was  firmly  founded  in  faitli  and  principle.  The  dissolute 
conduct  of  the  queen,  together  with  other  confirmatory  circum- 
stances, gave  rise  to  suspicion  of  Joanna's  illegitimacy,  and  the 
princess  was  so  generally  reputed  to  be  the  daughter  of  the  king's 
favourite,  Don  Beltran  de  la  Cueva,  that  she  was  popularly  surnam-  . 
ed  "  La  Beltraneja." 

The  grandees,  leagued  in  i?evolt  against  Henry  IV.,  publicly 
deposed  him,  and  swore  allegiance  to  the  youthfid  prince  Alfonso — 
then  only  eleven  years  of  age ;  and  a  civil  war  ensued,  w^hich  last- 
ed till  the  child-king  died. 

On  the  death  of  her  young  brother,  Isabella  retired  from  ■ 
court,  and  withdrew  to  Avila,  where  the  Archbishop  of  Toledo,  on 
behalf  of  the  confederate  nobles,  tendered  her  the  crown  lately 
awarded  to  Alfonso.  But  Isabella,  guided  equally  by  principle 
and  prudence,  declined  becoming  queen  of  Castile  during  the  life- 
time of  her  brother  Henry.  She  judiciously  permitted  them  to 
nominate  her  Princess  of  the  Asturias,  which  was  tantamount  to 
declaring  her  heir-apparent  to  the  throne ;  and  a  reconciliation 
was  effected  between  the  contending  parties.  An  interview  took 
place  between  Henry  and  Isabella ;  wherein  he  w^as  made  to  re- 
cognize her  as  his  royal  successor.  In  the  compact^  dictated  by  the 
nobles,  and  ratified  by  the  Cortes,  there  was  stipulation  that  Henry 
should  divorce  his  notoriously  profligate  queen ;  and  that  Isabella, 
while  promising  not  to  marry  without  her  brother's  consent,  should 
not  be  constrained  to  marry  in  opposition  to  her  own  wishes. 

That  this  latter  clause  was  not  superfluous,-  is  evident  from 
Henry's  having  arranged  an  alliance  for  his  sister,  when  she  was  in 
her  sixteenth  year,  so  repugnant  to  her  inclinations,  from  the  known 
dishonourable  character  of  the  intended  bridegroom,  that  upon 
hearing  of  its  proposal,  she  shut  herself  in  her  room,  took  neither 


238 


ISABELLA    OF  CASTILE. 


food  nor  sleep  for  a  day  and  niglit,  and  implored  of  heaven  to 
save  lier  from  so  detested  a  fate  either  hj  her  own  death  or  that 
of  her  foe. 

Her  prayers  were  heard ;  for  a  rapid  attack  of  illness  carried 
off  the  dreaded  Master  of  Calatrava  when  on  his  road  to  claim  his 
bride.  In  another  proposed  union,  where  disparity  of  years  point- 
ed out  its  ineligibility,  she  had  evinced  steadfast  resolution ;  for 
neither  menaces  nor  entreaties  could  move  her  to  consent  to  what 
her  reason  told  her  was  ill-judged.  With  address,  judicious  beyond 
that  which  her  youth  and  sex  generally  possess,  she  declined  the 
match  urged  by  her  brother,  on  the  plea  that  "  the  infantas  of 
Castile  could  not  be  disposed  of  in  marriage  without  the  consent 
of  the  nobles  of  the  realm." 

Now  that  Isabella's  succession  to  the  crowns  of  Castile  and 
Leon  was  legally  established,  her  hand  was  sought  in  marriage  by 
several  of  the  principal  sovereigns  of  Europe.  A  brother  of 
Edward  IV.  of  England — in  all  likelihood,  Kichard  Duke  of 
Gloucester ;  the  King  of  Portugal ;  the  Duke  of  Guienne,  brother 
to  Louis  XI.  of  France ;  and  Ferdinand,  the  Prince  of  Arragon, 
were  all  suitors  to  Isabella  of  Castile. 

Had  "mis-shapen  Richard"  been  the  successful  applicant,  who 
knows  how  this  noble-spirited  woman,  bringing  him  a  throne  to 
share  in  occupying,  and  a  mind  to  help  in  swaying,  might  have 
prevented  his  launching  upon  that  dark  sea  of  crime  and  ambition 
which  whelmed  him  in  its  blood-stained  tide  ;  and  how  her  active 
intelligence  might  have  operated  to  aid  his  able  intellect  in  finding 
fit  channels  for  its  abundant  resources.  With  such  a  woman  at  his 
side  through  life,  the  mental  strength  of  Richard  might  have  been 
put  to  vu'tuous  and  valuable  use,  instead  of  being  exercised  in 
compassing  usurpation,  treason,  and  murder. 

As  it  ^vas,  Isabella's  choice  fell  upon  Ferdinand  of  Arragon. 


ISABELLA    OF    CASTILE.  239 

Many  circumstances  conduced  to  incline  lier  to  turn  an  eye  of 
favour  upon  liim.  State  reasons  pointed  to  tlie  advantages  wliich 
arose  from  an  alliance  where  descent  from  one  common  stock, 
uniformity  of  language,  and  similarity  of  customs,  promised 
mutual  conformity  of  opinions  and  views ;  while  the  relative 
positions  of  their  I'espective  kingdoms,  seemed  to  indicate  that  con- 
joined into  one  monarchy,  the  two  subordinate  states  might 
become  a  powerful  European  sovereignty.  Pojoular  opinion,  too, 
greatly  leaned  towards  the  Arragonese  alliance ;  and  the  people's 
preferences  had  ever  great  weight  with  Isabella.  Besides  these  pub- 
lic motives,  there  were  private  ones  that  had  their  influence  upon 
the  womanly  nature  of  the  young  princess.  Ferdinand  was  comely 
in  person,  gallant  of  bearing,  and  distiuguished  for  knightly 
bravery  and  accomplishment.  He  had  given  tokens  of  possessing 
staid  judgment,  although  still  in  the  flower  of  his  age ;  and  he 
possessed  both  spirit  and  grace. 

Isabella  was  goaded  into  making  immediate  selection  among 
her  suitors,  by  the  injurious  treatment  she  received  from  her 
brother ;  who  infringed  almost  every  article  of  the  compact,  and 
tyrannously  urged  her  union  with  the  King  of  Portugal.  Feeling 
herself  released  .from  her  portion  of  the  treaty,  by  his  violation  of  • 
engagement,  she  sought  the  concurrence  of  the  leading  nobles,  and 
suj)ported  by  their  approval,  she  sent  a  favourable  reply  to  Arra- 
gon,  without  further  consulting  Henry. 

While  the  marriage  articles  were  being  drawn  up, — and  they 
were  framed  with  every  regard  to  Castilian  national  feeling,  so  as 
to  preserve  the  people's  rights  from  encroachment,  and  to  restrict 
Isabella's  husband  from  trenching  upon  her  exclusive  prerogatives 
of  Queen  of  Castile  and  Leon  in  her  own  right, — ^she  took  up  her 
abode  under  the  protection  of  her  mother,  in  order  to  await  the 
result  of  the  negotiations  with  Arragon.    But  Henry's  suspicions 


240  ISABELLA    OF    OAS  TILE. 

being  awakened,  attempts  were  set  on  foot  "by  him  and  liis  partisans, 
to  obtain  forcible  possession  of  liis  sister's  person ;  and  Isabella 
sending  word  to  lier  friends,  Admiral  Henriquez,  and  tlie  Arcli- 
bisliop  of  Toledo,  slie  was  rescued  from  ber  hazardous  position,  and 
borne  in  safety  to  Valladolid,  wbere  sbe  was  received  by  tbe  citi- 
zens witb  entbusiasm. 

There  being  considerable  difficulty  in  tbe  Prince  of  Arragon's 
coming  to  Castile,  where  such  hostile  jealousy  and  espial  sur- 
rounded his  intended  bride,  he  resolved,— with  the  chivalrous 
spirit  which  formed  a  part  of  his  character,  and  the  touch  of 
romance  which  coloured  his  age  and  nation,— to  proceed  thither  in 
disguise,  attended  by  a  few  trusty  adherents  only,  attired  as  mer- 
chants.   His  arrival  was  hailed  with  joy  by  the  little  court  at 
Valladohd.    IsabeUa's  first  care,— with  her  usual  excellent  sense 
and  discretion,— was  to  address  a  letter  to  her  brother  Henry,  in- 
forming him  of  her  intended  marriage ;  and  then,  an  interview 
having  been  arranged  between  the  royal  pair,  the  Archbishop  of 
Toledo  conducted  the  Prince  of  Arragon  to  the  presence  of  the 
Infanta.    Ferdinand  was  then  in  his  eighteenth  year ;  Isabella,  one 
year  older.   They  were  a  handsome  couple.   Ferdinand's  naturally 
fair  complexion  was  sunburned  into  manliness  by  exposure  to  the 
field ;  his  well-formed  frame  was  knit  into  vigour  by  military  ex- 
ercises ;  and  his  fluency  of  speech  was  poHshed  into  courteous  ad- 
dress, when   desirous  of  gaining   a  point.     He  had  a  quick, 
sprightly  eye,  and  a  broad,  high  forehead.    Isabella's  height  was 
inclined  to  tall;  she  had  a  clear,  fresh  colour,  with  auburn  hair, 
and  eyes  of  radiant  blue,— rare  peculiarities  in  Spanish  beauty. 
Her  personal  charms  were  enhanced  by  a  graciousness  and  benig 
nity  of  manner  the  most  winning;  while  dignity  and  modesty  were 
so  equally  blendedin  her  demeanour,  that  she  was  no  less  womanly 
than  queenly. 


ISABELLA    OF    CASTILE.  241 

The  public  celebration  of  tlie  marriage  took  place  on  the  1 9tl: 
October,  1469  ;  and  the  nuptials  were  solemnized  in  the  presence 
of  Ferdinand's  grandfather,  the  Admiral  of  Castile,  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Toledo,  and  a  large  number  of  the  nobility. 

Henry,  incensed  at  this  act  of  independence  on  the  part  of  his 
sister,  declared  that  she  had  forfeited  her  claims  by  marrying  with- 
out his  approval,  and  abrogated  his  nomination  of  Isabella  as  his 
successor.  He  and  his  queen  took  an  oath  affirmative  of  Joanna's 
legitimacy,  and  went  through  the  farce  of  affiancing  the  princess, 
then  in  her  ninth  year,  to  the  Duke  of  Guienne,  with  the  view  of 
securing  the  aid  of  France  in  support  of  her  pretensions  to  the 
throne, 

Ferdinand  and  Isabella  were  so  ill-provided  with  funds,  that 
the  very  money  requisite  for  defraying  the  expenses  of  their  mar- 
riage had  been  borrowed  ;  and  now,  they  possessed  scarcely  suffi- 
cient to  supply  the  ordinary  cost  of  their  daily  table.  Moreover, 
the  presence  of  her  husband,  so  needful  to  sustain  the  spirits  of 
Isabella's  Castilian  party,  was  about  to  be  withd.rawn ;  for  the 
King  of  Arragon  was  engaged  in  contentions  with  Louis  XL,  that 
placed  him  in  a  perilous  situation,  and  Isabella  was  the  first  to 
urge  Ferdinand  to  march  to  his  father's  relief. 

While  he  was  engaged  in  Arragon,  Isabella's  influence  aug- 
mented the  strengthening  of  their  mutual  cause  in  Castile.  Her 
own  virtuous  discretion,  and  the  decorum  of  those  she  maintained 
around  her,  tended  to  inspire  confidence  in  her  fitness  for  rule, 
while  it  contrasted  nobly  with  the  levity,  rapacity,  and  profligacy 
of  those  who  formed  Henry's  court.  During  the  interval  that  en- 
sued, Isabella  gradually  but  securely  won  the  esteem  of  her  future 
subjects;  and  when  her  brother's  imbecile  reign  came  to  a  close 
by  his  death,  she  succeeded  to  his  throne,  with  the  sanction  of  the 

Cortes.    A  herald  formally  proclaimed :  "Castile,  Castile  for  the 
31 


242 


ISABELLA    OF  CASTILE. 


king  Don  Ferdinand,  and  his  consort,  Dona  Isabella,  queen  propri- 
etor (as  we  should  say,  queen  in  lier  own  right,  or  queen  regnant) 
of  these  kingdoms!"  Isabella  received  the  homage  of  her  sub- 
jects, swore  to  maintain  inviolate  the  liberties  of  the  realm,  and 
repaired  to  the  cathedral  church  ;  where,  when  Te  Deum  had  been 
chanted,  she  offered  up  thanksgiving,  and  invoked  the  Divine 
blessing  upon  her  future  endeavours  to  discharge  the  high  trust 
which  devolved  upon  her,  with  equity  and  wisdom — and  nobly 
did  she  fulfil  this,  her  coronation  oath. 

On  Ferdinand's  arrival  from  Arragon,  the  respective  authority 
to  be  exercised  by  the  royal  husband  and  wife  in  the  administra- 
tion of  government  was  discussed ;  and  upon  the  issue  of  this  dis- 
cussion resulting  in  a  decision  that  Isabella,  as  sole  heiress  of  the 
dominions  of  Castile  and  Leon,  was  entitled  to  all  the  essential 
rights  of  sovereignty  (while  whatever  authority  Ferdinand  might 
hold,  could  only  be  derived  through  her),  he  was  so  ill-pleased, 
that  he  spoke  of  returning  to  Arragon.  But  Isabella,  with  affec- 
tionate reasoning,  succeeded  in  soothing  his  marital  susceptibility ; 
and  by  representations  of  equal  truth  and  gentleness,  won  him  to 
perceive  that  their  interests  were  uniform.  With  ^vifely  skill,  she 
healed  his  wounded  pride,  while  preserving  uncompromised  her 
royal  trust. 

One  of  the  first  acts  in  common  of  the  sovereigns,  was  to  meet 
effectually  a  coalition  of  those  nobles  who  supported  Joanna's 
party,  and  who,  joining  with  the  King  of  Portugal,  declared  war 
against  Ferdinand  and  Isabella.  Unprepared  for  Alfonso's  inva- 
sion, they  made  vigorous  exertions  for  resistance.  Isabella  em- 
ployed whole  nights  in  dictating  despatches  to  her  secretaries ;  and 
encountered  personal  fatigue  with  indomitable  resolution.  She 
performed  arduous  journeys  on  horseback,  for  the  sake  of  herself 
inspectiug  and  encouraging  those  garrisons  where  she  deemed  such 


ISABELLA    OF    CASTILE.  243 

stimulus  requisite  ;  and  shrank  from  no  exertion  tliat  might  ensure 
allegiance,  although  her  situation  at  that  time  demanded  repose. 
The  risk  of  injury  to  her  constitution,  and  of  seeing  her  maternal 
hopes  frustrated,  could  not  deter  her  from  pursuing  her  duty  as  a 
ruler.  Her  sense  of  queenhood  ever  kept  pace  Avith  her  sense  of 
womanhood ;  and  she  was  as  mindful  of  what  she  owed  to  her  peo- 
ple, as  of  what  she  owed  to  her  husband,  her  children,  and  herself 

Thanks  to  her  extraordinary  exertions,  in  conjunction  with 
those  he  himself  made,  Ferdinand  was  able  to  advance  at  the  head 
of  a  considerable  force,  upon  the  invading  army.  After  varying 
success  during  the  campaign, — in  the  course  of  which,  Isabella 
evinced  on  several  occasions  the  punctilious  regard  for  Castilian 
rights,  and  the  scrupulous  probity  and  rectitude  which  distinguished 
her — victory  at  the  battle  of  Toro  decided  the  war  in  favour  of 
Ferdinand  and  Isabella.  The  King  of  Portugal  withdrew  his  pre- 
tensions ;  those  of  Joanna  were  set  at  rest  by  her  retirement  into 
a  convent ;  and  the  undisputed  possession  of  Castile  which  thus 
accrued  to  the  sovereigns,  was  shortly  after  followed  by  Ferdi- 
nand's succeeding  to  the  crown  of  Arragon,  by  the  death  of  his 
father,  in  1479.  The  two  kingdoms  of  Arragon  and  Castile  were 
united  under  the  joint  sovereignty  of  Ferdmand  and  Isabella,  and 
became  the  important  European  monarchy  it  has  since  been. 

While  the  military  accomplishments  of  Ferdinand  found  such 
ample  scope  in  obtaining  advantages  for  the  state,  Isabella's  fine 
mental  powers,  and  indefatigable  energy,  were  employed  in  govern- 
mental reforms  calculated  to  improve  the  social  condition  of  her 
people.  Although  her  husband's  able  judgment  aided  her  own, 
yet  his  policy  was  of  a  less  upright  and  pure  character  than 
Isabella's ;  she  was  incapable  of  an  indirect  or  unworthy  pro- 
cedure, while  Ferdinand  was  less  absolutely  controuled  by  strict 
principle  in  his  course  of  action.    Happily  for  her  subjects,  the 


244  ISABELLA    OF  CASTILE. 

internal  administration  of  Castile  fell  cliiefly  witliin  the  province 
of  tlieir  queen  to  regulate— and  nobly  slie  executed  the  charge. 
Their  welfare— present  and  permanent— was  her  highest  aim,  her 
dearest  care.    Few  young  queens  have  been  able  to  effect  the 
substantial  improvements  in  administrative  rule  that  Isabella  estab- 
lished during  the  first  portion  of  her  reign.    Before  the  year  1482 
most  important  measures  were  already  adopted,  and  put  into  active 
operation.    For  the  efacient  protection  of  the  country,  and  for  the 
attainment  of  the  ends  of  justice,  Isabella  persevered  in  re-organ- 
izing the  Santa  Hermandad,  or  Holy  Brotherhood,  an  association 
which  formed  a  system  of  pohce,  taking  within  its  jurisdiction 
offences  regardless  of  the  rank  of  offenders.    The  opposition  which 
the  queen  met  with  from  the  nobility— who  found  this  new  system 
likely  to  interfere  with  their  hitherto  unchecked  oppression  of  the 
powerless— was  counterbalanced  by  the  popularity  of  the  institu- 
tion among  those  for  whose  behoof  it  was  put  in  force.    The  con- 
sciousness of  acting  for  the  true  benefit  of  her  people,  and  the 
recognition  they  evinced  of  their  queen's  solicitude  for  their 
advantage,  supported  her  through  all  difficulties,  and  gained  her 
the  unalterable  attachment  of  those  she  swayed.    An  instance  of 
her  power  over  the  hearts  of  the  populace,  and  of  her  own  self- 
possession  and  reliance  upon  them,  is  exemphfied  in  an  incident 
which  is  recorded  to  have  taken  place  at  Segovia,  during  an  insur- 
rectionary tumult  of  the  citizens.    They  assembled  in  great  num- 
bers before  the  citadel,  calling  out,  "  Death  to  the  Alcayde  ! 
Attack  the  castle  !  "    Isabella's  terrified  attendants  entreated  their 
mistress  to  order  the  gates  to  be  more  strongly  guarded  ;  but  she 
quietly  descended  into  the  courtyard,  and  stationing  herself  there, 
ordered  the  portals  to  be  thrown  wide  open.    On  the  insurgents 
pouring  in,  she  calmly  addressed  them,  bidding  them  tell  her  their 
grievances,  and  promising  that  she  would  do  all  in  her  power  to 


ISABELLA    OF  CASTILE. 


245 


redress  these,  as  slie  was  sure  tliat  wliat  was  for  their  interest,  must 
be  also  for  hers,  and  for  that  of  the  whole  city.  Her  composure 
and  dignity,  together  with  her  thus  making  their  cause  her  own, 
allayed  their  wrath,  and  gained  her  time  to  examine  into  the  justice 
of  their  complaints ;  while  by  her  presence  of  mind,  she  quelled 
without  compromise  of  royal  supremacy,  a  disturbance  in  its  com- 
mencement which  might  have  grown  into  a  serious  outbreak. 

She  went  herself  into  the  provinces  where  disaffection  and 
anarchy  prevailed,  for  the  purpose  of  enquiring  into  delinquencies, 
composing  feuds,  and  reforming  abuses,  notwithstanding  the  re- 
monstrances her  ministers  made  against  endangering  her  safet}^ 
Nothing  deterred  her,  where  duty  and  principle  called  for  exertion 
on  her  part.  She  revived  the  ancient  practice  of  the  Castilian 
sovereigns,  of  presiding  in  person  over  the  administration  of  justice ; 
and  she  weekly  took  her  seat  on  a  chair  of  state,  surrounded  by 
her  council,  receiving  suits  referred  to  her  decision — thus  saving 
the  usual  cost  and  delay  of  equitable  adjustment.  Her  method  in 
business,  and  energy  of  mind,  caused  admirable  desj)atch  in  the 
transaction  of  affairs ;  and  she  disposed  of  so  many  civil  and 
criminal  causes  within  a  short  space,  that  it  struck  terror  into  the 
hearts  of  plunderers  and  culprits.  The  certainty  with  which  law 
was  executed,  regardless  of  wealth  that  could  purchase  release 
from  penalty,  or  rank  that  could  obtain  impunity,  contributed 
greatly  to  secure  respect  for  legal  institutions,  during  the  reign  of 
Isabella.  She  herself  was  superior  to  all  mercenary  motive ;  and 
no  sophistry  could  bias  her  honest  convictions  on  this  head.  Be- 
sides the  judicatory  reforms,  Isabella  salutarily  restricted  the  nobil- 
ity's overgrown  power,  preserved  the  ecclesiastical  rights  of  the 
crown  from  papal  usurpation,  ordained  commercial  and  trade  regu- 
lations, and  maintained  royal  authority.  The  private  characters, 
no  less  than  the  public  measures  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  tended 


* 


246  ISABELLA    OF  CASTILE. 

to  secure  their  regal  supremacy.  Tlieir  talents,  their  sage  conduct, 
their  dignity — moral,  intellectual,  and  personal — commanded  re- 
spect, and  inspired  confidence.  But  while  Fei'dinand's  wisdom 
was  shrewd  and  worldly,  Isabella's  was  virtuous  and  disinterested. 
She  used  her  high  endowments  for  patriotic  purposes,  and  devoted 
her  whole  soul  to  exalted  aims. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Isabella's  nature  was  as  merciful 
as  it  was  just,  as  humane  and  kindly  as  it  was  righteous,  as  benevo- 
lent and  mild  as  it  was  strict-principled ;  yet  nevertheless,  in  her  ^ 
reign  was  established  a  tribunal  conspicuous  for  merciless,  inhuman 
and  deadly  severity— the  Inquisition.  Owing  to  early  impressions, 
and  to  having  for  confessor  in  her  girlhood  one  of  the  most  relent- 
less of  men, — Thomas  de  Torquemada  (afterwards  the  Inquisitor 
General  of  Spain,) — she  had  acquired  a  habit  of  deferring  in  all 
spiritual  matters  to  other  arbitrament  than  that  of  her  own  pure 
and  sensitive  conscience.  When,  therefore,  the  introduction  of  the 
so-caUed  holy  office  (blasphemous  misuse  of  terms!)  into  Spain  was 
proposed,  Isabella  was  gradually  won  to  agree  to  that  which  her 
own  excellent  judgment  and  good  heart — had  they  been  permitted 
free  exercise — would  have  revolted  from.  Ferdinand  was  readily 
brought  to  accede  to  its  institution  ;  but  Isabella,  without  whose 
sanction  nothing  could  be  effected  in  Castile,— long  withheld  her 
consent.  Her  nature  recoiled  from  putting  in  force  so  terrible  an 
engine  ;  which,  under  the  name  of  all  that  is  most  revered,  might 
be  made  the  means  of  cruellest  persecution.  But  a  skilful  appeal 
directed  to  her  pious  feelings  awakened  misgi^dng  that  leniency 
might  be  a  sin;  she  was  led  to  believe  that  religion  required 
severity  towards  apostates  and  heretics,  and  that  to  spare  suspected 
Jews,  or  infidel  Mahommedans,  was  mistaken  mercy.  Her  ac- 
quiescence was  obtained;  and  a  Papal  bull  authorizing  the  es- 
tablishment of  the  Inquisition  in  Castile  w  as  solicited  from  Borne. 


ISABELLA    OF  CASTILE. 


24T 


She  still  hesitated ;  and  kept  the  execution  of  the  bull  suspended 
for  two  years ;  but  at  length,  in  1480,  the  royal  order  was  issued, 
and  the  Court  of  Inquisitors  was  appointed.  The  number  of  pris- 
oners soon  became  so  great  that  the  space  first  destined  for  their 
reception  was  wholly  inadequate  to  contain  them  ;  various  rigorous 
penalties  followed ;  and  sentences  of  death  abounded.  In  the  course 
of  the  year  1481,  two  hundred  and  ninety-eight  persons  were  burned 
alive  in  the  city  of  Seville,  two  thousand  in  other  parts  of  Anda- 
lusia, and  seventeen  thousand  sufifered  different  penal  inflictions. 
The  property  of  fchose  who  were  executed  was  confiscated ;  and  Queen 
Isabella  wrote  to  the  Pope  complaining  that  what  she  had  done  on 
behalf  of  the  Catholic  faith,  drew  upon  her  the  accusation  of  hav- 
ing done  it  for  the  sake  of  the  valuable  confiscations  which  accrued 
fiom  condemnation.  Conscious  of  her  purity  of  motive,  and  anx- 
ious to  secure  the  power  of  administering  justice  according  to  her 
own  views  of  what  she  held  to  be  its  due,  she  wished  to  make  the 
judgments  of  the  new  tribunal  independent  of  any  appeal  to 
Kome  ;  and  her  letter  to  Sixtus  IV.  stated  this  request.  But  mild- 
ness and  moderation, — however  much  desired  by  Isabella,  and  re- 
commended by  the  Pope  in  his  reply, — were  not  easily  made  part 
of  a  system  that  soon  became  irresponsible  and  potent  beyond 
all  limit.  The  Inquisition  was  established  in  Spain  ;  and  there  it 
held  its  fierce  sway, — a  terror  and  a  scourge  of  fearfuUest  might. 

On  reading  the  dark  story  of  atrocity  committed  at  a  later  pe- 
riod of  this  reign,  when  the  Jews  were  expelled  from  Spain,  we 
are  filled  with  indignant  regret  that  a  humane  nature  like  Isabella's 
should  have  been  so  desecrated  as  to  have  been  wrenched  into 
any  participation  with  such  monstrous  deeds.  It  is  a  lamentable 
instance  of  a  great  mind  surrendering  its  judgment  to  inferior 
capacities  under  the  influence  of  ideas  of  religion.  Steadily  did 
Isabella  refuse  to  sign  the  iniquitous  edict  for  the  expulsion  of  the 


248  ISABELLA    OF  CASTILE. 

Jews,  an  edict  wliicli  consigned  several  liundred  thousand  persons 
to  beggary,  exile,  and  miserable  perisMng— until  forced  into  the 
measure  by  those  who  had  the  spuitual  direction  of  her  conscience. 
The  descriptions  of  the  cruel  farces  enacted,  under  the  name  of 
enquiry  into  their  state  of  converted  faith,  against  suspected  Jews, 
make  Le  Sage's  account  of  the  fraudulent  process  carried  on 
against  Samuel  Simou,  the  Christianized  Jew,  by  the  mock  inquisi- 
tors, Don  Eaphael  and  Ambrose  Lamela,  in  company  with  Gil 
Bias,  no  caricature  whatever ;  while  the  relation  in  history  of  the 
miseries  suffered  by  the  exiled  Israelites,  stripped  of  their  posses- 
sions, and  turned  forth  to  wander  away  and  starve  by  thousands, 
wrings  the  heart  with  grief  and  abhorrence  at  the  ferocities  com- 
mitted under  the  plea  of  serving  Heaven's  cause.    Will  men  never 
remember  God's  reply  to  Abraham,  when  he  thrust  the  old  man 
from  his  tent,  exposing  him  to  all  the  evils  of  the  night,  because 
he  worshipped  the  fire  only?    Instead  of  applauding  this  act  of 
zealous  anger  on  his  behalf,  God  answered  :— "  I  have  suffered  him 
these  hundred  years,  although  he  dishonoured  me ;  and  could'st 
not  thou  endure  him  one  night?"*    We  cannot  but  recall  Mo- 
liere's  spirited  expostulation  : — • 

"  Des  interets  du  Ciel  pourquoi  vous  cliargez-vous  ? 
Pour  punir  le  coupable,  a-t-il  besoin  de  nous  ? 
Laissez-lui,  laissez-lui  le  soin  de  ses  vengeances  : 
Ne  sqngez  qu'au  pardon  qu'il  prescrit  aux  oifences  ; 
Et  ne  regardez  point  aux  jugements  humains, 
Quand  vous  suivez  du  Ciel  Ics  ordres  souverains." 

[  Why  take  on  yourself  Heaven's  cause  to  defend  ? 
To  punish  the  culprit,  need  He  our  help  append  ? 
Leave  to  him,  leave  to  him,  the  care  to  avenge  : 
Remember,  that  pardon's  enjoined  as  revenge  ; 
And  judge  not  according  to  Eartli's  human  leaven. 
When  obeying  the  orders  of  sovereign  Heaven.] 

*  The  reader  is  referred  to  Bishop  Jeremy  Taylor's  sermon  on  "Liberty  of  Prophesy- 
ing," for  this  beautiful  parable-story;  and  to  Leigh  Hunt's  poetical  version  of  it,  under 
the' title  of  "Abraham  and  the  Fire-worshipper." 


ISABELLA    OF    CASTILE.  249 

A  great  feature  in  tlie  political  conduct  of  Isabella  and  her 
husband,  was  tbe  prudence  and  temper  tliey  disi3layed  in  tlieir  ne- 
gociations  with  foreign  courts;  and  the  judicious  moderation 
blended  with  dignified  firmness  and  spirited  assertion,  which  mark 
all  their  international  and  ambassadorial  treaties.  They  possessed 
that  valuable  secret  in  diplomacy — as  it  is.  in  most  human  inter- 
course— of  preserving  coolness  amid  perplexing  discussion ;  and 
maintaining  strict  right  and  justice  in  privilege,  while  using  for- 
bearance of  expression. 

Their  invariable  selection,  too,  of  the  fittest  and  worthiest  men 
for  appointment  to  the  highest  offices  in  the  state,  secured  to  the 
sovereigns  the  ablest  assistance  in  ruling  their  kingdom.  The 
names  of  two  such  men  as  Cardinal  Mendoza  and  Cardinal  Xime- 
nes,  who  successively  filled  the  post  of  primate  of  Spain,  amply 
instance  Ferdinand  and  Isabella's  aj)preciation  of  lofty  intellect 
and  commanding  powers ;  Avith  their  care  to  place  gifted  persons 
like  these  in  positions  which  should  appropriate  the  exercise  of 
their  endowments  to  the  national  behoof. 

Isabella's  zeal  for  religion,  and  thirst  for  glory,  excited  in  her 
a  desu-e  to  expel  the  Moslemites  from  their  last  stronghold  in 
Spain.  War  was  therefore  carried  into  the  kingdom  of  Granada ; 
and  she,  by  her  indefatigable  exertions,  provident  forethought,  and 
dauntless  courage,  was  the  very  soul  of  the  expedition.  Ever  so- 
licitous for  her  people's  welfare,  she  neglected  nothing  that  could 
ensure  the  personal  comforts  of  her  troops,  as  well  as  sustain  their 
valour.  Her  tender  care  for  the  sick  and  wounded  soldiers,  led  to 
her  appointing  a  number  of  large  tents,  known  as  the  "  queen's 
hospitals,"  to  be  established  for  their  reception;  where  the  needful 
attendance  and  medicines  were  provided  at  her  own  charge.  Isa- 
bella has  the  honour— a  noble  one  for  her,  as  queen  and  woman— 
of  this  being  the  first  instance  on  record  of  regular  camp  hospi- 


32 


250 


ISABELLA    OF  CASTILE. 


tals.    She  supported  her  husband  by  her  cheering  views ;  she  en- 
couraged the  leaders  by  frequent  letters  and  bestowal  of  honours  ; 
she  visited  the  camp  in  person;  and  set  a  perpetual  example  of 
heroism  in  spirit  and  in  action.    She  proved  herself  an  able  gen- 
eral ;  she  levied  forces,  she  constructed  roads,  she  supplied  stores 
and  provisions,  she  devised  means  for  meeting  expenditure,  and— 
as  a  last  resource,  pawned  not  only  the  crown  jewels,  but  her  own 
ornaments,  to  furnish  the  requisite  amount  of  military  cost.  "When 
the  protracted  siege  of  Baza  wore  out  the  spirits  of  the  army,  her 
presence  acted  like  an  angelic  influence  to  inspire  fresh  vigour  and 
determination.    She  appeared  upon  the  field,  mounted  on  horse- 
back, and  clad  in  complete  armour.    The  suit  of  mail  she  wore,  is 
still  preserved  as  a  precious  memorial  in  the  armoury  at  Madrid. 
She  superintended  the  military  preparations,  and  personally  in- 
spected every  part  of  the  encampment.    On  one  occasiou,  subse- 
quently, an  accident  occurred,  which  might  have  been  attended 
with  fatal  consequences ;  but  which  was  made  the  source  of  ulti- 
mate and  permanent  good.    By  the  carelessness  of  her  attendants, 
a  lamp  was  suffered  to  remain  in  such  a  situation,  that  it  set  fire  to 
the  hangings  of  the  tent  in  which  the  queen  was  lodged  ;  and  the 
flames,  spreading  rapidly,  threatened  a  general  conflagration.  For- 
tunately, Isabella  escaped  uninjured,  and,  to  prevent  any  recurrence 
of  a  similar  danger,  it  was  resolved  to  erect  a  substantial  town  on 
the  site  of  the  encampment.    The  work  proceeded  with  such  dili- 
gence, that  in  less  than  three  months  the  task  was  accomplished. 
The  army  were  desirous  that  the  new  city  should  bear  the  name  of 
their  well-beloved  queen ;  but  Isabella,  with  her  usual  modesty  and 
judgment,  declined  this  tribute,  and  entitled  the  i^lacQ  Santa  Fe. 
in  token  of  the  holy  faith  with  which  the  war  had  been  under- 
taken by  herself  and  people. 

At  length,  the  capital  of  Granada  surrendered ;  the  keys  of  the 


ISABELLA    OF    CASTILE.  251 

Alhambra  were  delivered  up ;  and  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  took 
possession  of  the  city, — tlie  grandees  kneeling  to  the  queen,  and 
saluting  her  hand  in  sign  of  homage  as  sovereign  of  Granada. 

While  the  conquerors  moved  triumphant  towards  the  scene  of 
their  glory,  the  Moorish  King,  Abdallah,  or  Boabdil,  took  his  way 
from  his  lost  possessions.  The  unhappy  prince  drew  bridle  when 
he  reached  a  rocky  point  which  commanded  a  last  view  of  Gra- 
nada ;  and  unable  to  bear  the  sight,  burst  into  tears.  His  mother, 
(whom  some  authorities  name  Ayxa,  others  Zoraya ;  both  having 
been  wives  to  Abdallah's  father  and  predecessor,  Muley  Abul 
Hacen,) — of  more  haughty  and  inflexible  spirit  than  her  son, — is 
said  to  have  exclaimed  bitterly : — "  You  do  well  to  weej)  like  a 
woman,  for  what  you  could  not  defend  like  a  man ! "  The  spot 
is  poetically  commemorated  by  the  title  given  to  it  by  the  people 
of  the  country,  '•'■JEl  ultimo  sospiro  del  Moro^'' — "  The  last  sigh  of 
the  Moor." 

Mr.  Washington  Irving's  beautiful  "  Chronicle  of  the  Conquest 
of  Granada,"  gives  the  most  graphic  description  of  all  this  brilliant 
period  in  Isabella's  life.  The  air  of  rich-hued  romance  thrown  over 
the  account,  together  with  a  certain  antique  fashion  of  simplicity 
in  the  diction,  give  it  a  resemblance  to  the  pages  of  old  Froissart, 

The  conquest  of  Granada, — grand  as  that  achievement  was, — 
formed,  as  it  were,  but  the  prelude  to  a  still  more  glorious  event ; 
an  event  which  gilds  Isabella's  reign  with  a  splendour  the  most 
lustrous.  To  her  belongs  the  especial  credit  of  listening  with 
favour  to  proposals,  which,  to  most  persons  who  heard  them,  ap- 
peared but  the  delusions  of  a  visionary.  Christopher  Columbus  had 
vainly  sought  from  other  crowned  heads,  the  necessary  patronage 
and  support  for  the  prosecution  of  his  schemes  of  discovery.  His 
first  application  to  the  court  of  Spain  came  at  an  unpropitious 
season,  when  the  sovereigns  were  engrossed  with  the  Moorish  war ; 


252  ISABELLA    OF  CASTILE. 

and  were  conveyed  tlirougli  an  adverse  channel —no  otlier  tlian 
tlie  queen's  confessor,  who,  at  tliat  period,  was  Fernando  de  Tala- 
vera,  a  man  of  narrow  views,  and  averse  from  any  tMng  like  innova- 
tion or  enterprise.    Columbus's  warm  and  steadfast  friend,— Juan 
Perez  de  Marchena,  superior  in  tlie  convent  of  La  Kabida,  where 
Columbus,  when  a  needy  wanderer,  had  asked  bread  and  shelter 
for  his  young  son,— had  from  the  first  taken  strong  interest  in  the 
great  navigator's  theories  of  discovery;  and  had  furnished  him 
with  letters  of  introduction  to  Talavera,  as  the  best  method  of  ob- 
taining access  to  Isabella's  ear.    The  confessor's  intervention  was 
not  more  favourable  to  Columbus's  cause,  than  so  lukewarm  an 
advocacy  as  Talavera's  of  what  he  thought  mere  wHd  improbable 
fantasy,  was  likely  to  be ;  and  years  elapsed  in  profitless  delay. 
Heart-sick  and  weary,  Columbus  prepared  to  quit  Spain,  in  order 
to  submit  his  proposals  to  the  court  of  France.    Again,  however, 
his  good  friend,  Juan  Perez  stepped  in,  and  persuaded  Columbus 
to  suspend  his  resolution,  until  he  himself  tried  what  a  personal  ap- 
plication would  do.     Perez  had  at  one  time  been  confessor  to 
Isabella ;  and  possessing  the  queen's  esteem  for  his  many  excellent 
qualities,  he  went  at  once  to  her,  obtained  an  audience,  and  pleaded 
Columbus's  cause  with  so  much  fervour,  that  he  succeeded  in  ex- 
citing the  attention  and  securing  the  interest  of  the  sovereigns. 
The  prosperous  close  of  the  war  in  Granada  afforded  additional  op- 
portunity for  listening  to  proposals  that  opened  a  prospect  of  such 
vast  and  important  acquisitions ;  and  Columbus  was  recalled  to 
state  his  own  views  to  the  Spanish  sovereigns.    This  he  did  with 
so  much  eloquence  and  skill,  that  while  the  imagiuation  of  the 
king  was  dazzled  with  ideas  of  gain  and  dominion,  that  of  Isabella 
was  fired  with  the  hope  of  extending  the  light  of  Christianity  over 
nations  ignorant  and  heathen.    Even  then,  Ferdinand's  calculating 
spirit  would  have  placed  a  bar  to  the  fulfilment  of  the  project , 


* 


ISABELLA 


OF  CASTILE. 


253 


for,  upon  Coluinlbus's  stipulations  on  liis  side  being  announced,  tlie 
king  demurred  to  them ;  and  as  nothing  could  induce  the  stout- 
hearted Genoese  to  relinquish  points  that  he  knew  to  he  his  due, 
the  conferences  were  broken  off,  and  he  once  more  left  the  Span- 
ish court,  to  try  his  fortune  elsewhere.  The  friends  he  had  there, 
ventured  boldly  to  represent  to  the  queen  the  risk  she  ran  of  be- 
holding some  other  monarchy  avail  itself  of  Columbus's  services  to 
secure  the  glory  and  advantage  of  his  discoveries;  and  one  of 
them  went  so  far  as  to  remind  Isabella  that  her  present  policy  was 
not  in  accordance  with  the  magnanimous  spirit  which  had  hitherto 
made  her  the  ready  patron  of  great  and  heroic  enterprise.  She,— 
with  her  usual  fine  sense, — far  from  being  displeased  at  this  honest 
eloquence,  M^as  moved  by  it  to  give  Columbus's  proposals  their  due 
consideration,  and  to  view  them  in  their  true  light.  Refusing  to 
listen  longer  to  the  suggestions  of  cold  or  timid  counsellors,  she 
gave  way  to  the  natural  impulses  of  her  own  noble  and  generous 
heart,  and  declared  that  she  would  assume  the  undertaking  for  her 
own  crown  of  Castile ;  and  that  she  was  ready  to  part  with  her 
jewels  to  defray  the  cost,  should  the  funds  in  the  treasury  be  in- 
sufficient. Thus  spiritedly  did  this  high-minded  woman  ever 
behave  where  a  principle  or  a  right  course  was  involved. 

No  sooner  were  the  conditions  settled,  and  the  expedition 
resolved  upon,  than  Isabella,  with  her  characteristic  promptitude 
and  ability,  took  the  requisite  measures  for  forwarding  its  com- 
mencement. Orders  were  despatched  for  stores  and  articles  neces- 
sary for  the  voyage ;  a  small  fleet  of  three  vessels  was  appointed 
to  sail  from  the  port  of  Palos ;  and,  as  the  expedition  was  far  from 
popular,  a  royal  ordinance  was  issued,  promising  protective  privi- 
leges to  all  who  should  embark  in  it.  On  the  3rd  August,  1492, 
the  illustrious  navigator  set  sail — with  what  immortal  success,  is  well 
known. 


254 


ISABELLA    OF  CASTILE. 


To  Isabella  of  Castile  is  doubtless  attributable  a  sliare  in  the 
glory  of  Christopher  Columbus's  grand  discovery.  Had  she  not 
yielded  credit  to  his  theories,  and  partaken  in  the  noble  enthusiasm 
of  his  views,  he  might  have  continued  to  pine  out  the  remainder  of 
his  life  in  vain  solicitations,  and  fruitless  seeking  for  patronage. 
The  acquisition  of  a  new  hemisphere  is  partly  her  triumpk ;  and 
the  generous  credence-  which  an  elevated  soul  gives  to  conceptions 
deemed  chimerical  by  less  exalted  minds,  is  wholly  her  own. 
Isabella's  interest  in  Columbus  and  his  undertaking  was  no  fickle 
or  transitory  sentiment ;  from  the  time  she  first  put  faith  in  him, 
she  remained  his  steadfast  friend  and  protectress  to  the  last.  His 
own  words  bear  testimony  to  her  enlightened  benignity,  where  he 
says  in  one  of  his  letters : — "  In  the  midst  of  the  general  incre- 
dulity, the  Almighty  infused  into  the  queen,  my  lady,  the  spirit  of 
intelligence  and  energy ;  and,  whilst  every  one  else  in  his  igno- 
rance was  exjDatiating  only  on  the  inconvenience  and  cost,  her  High- 
ness approved  it,  on  the  contrary,  and  gave  it  all  the  support  in 
her  power."  And  one  instance,  among  others,  of  the  gracious  con- 
sideration she  evinced  for  Columbus,  is  marked  by  the  circum- 
stance of  her  taking  Ms  two  sons,  Diego  and  Fernando,  as  lier  own 
pages,  on  the  death  of  Prince  John,  in  whose  service  they  had 
formerly  been. 

The  sudden  loss  of  this  prince,  in  the  full  bloom  of  youthful 
promise,  was  a  blow  to  his  mother's  heart  from  which  she  never 
entirely  recovered.  He  died  on  the  4th  of  October,  1497,  in  the 
twentieth  year  of  his  age,  not  more  than  six  months  after  his 
auspicious  marriage  with  the  Princess  Margaret,  daughter  of  the 
Emperor  Maximilian.  Prince  John  was  the  darling  of  the  nation, 
as  well  as  of  his  parents ;  for  never  did  royal  heii-  give  greater  hope 
of  future  excellence.  Isabella  received  the  news  of  this  beloved 
son's  death  with  the  resignation  and  fortitude  of  one  who  had 


ISABELLA    OF    CASTILE.  255 

scliooled  lier  sonl  to  bear  tlie  dispensations  of  lier  Creator  with 
unmurmuring  submission;  but  tliough  meek  and  patient  of  de- 
meanour, lier  inmost  heart  felt  tlie  wound.  This  trial  was  suc- 
ceeded the  -very  year  after,  by  one  no  less  afficting :  her  eldest 
daughter  and  namesake,  Isabella,  who  had  been  married  to  the 
Prince  of  Portugal,  died  in  childbirth ;  and  this  second  bereave- 
ment, so  soon  following  the  first,  caused  her  health  to  sink  under 
the  heavy  calamity. 

The  queen's  affections  received  reiterated  shocks  at  this  period ; 
and  it  seemed  as  if  her  domestic  sorrows  were  to  be  heaped  in 
proportion  with  the  abimdance  of  her  regal  prosperities.  She  had 
lost  her  mother,  the  dowager-queen ;  who,  during  the  latter  years 
of  her  life,  had  suffered  from  a  mental  infirmity  that  drew  forth  the 
tenderest  personal  care  of  Isabella;  and  she  had  now  a  fresh 
misery  to  endure,  which  caused  her  bitter  anguish  both  in  maternal 
and  in  queenly  relation.  Her  second  daughter,  Joanna,  who  had 
been  allied  in  marriage  with  the  archduke  Philip  of  Flanders,  at 
this  time  gave  unequivocal  symptoms  of  insanity ;  and  as — owing 

to  the  deaths  of  Prince  John  and  the  young  Queen  of  Portugal  

the  succession  devolved  upon  Joanna,  Isabella's  heart  was  torn  by 
mingled  grief  for  her  hapless  daughter,  and  filled  with  anxious 
forebodings  for  the  future  welfare  of  her  beloved  people.  Yet 
even  in  the  midst  of  these  accumulated  sources  of  sorrow,  and  not- 
withstandmg  the  rapidly-declining  state  of  her  own  health,  she 
still  continued  to  devote  the  energies  of  her  mind  to  the  interests 
of  her  subjects  ;  and  up  to  the  period  of  her  death,  ceased  not  to 
take  an  active  share  in  the  provisions  for  their  protection  and 
benefit.  A  threatened  invasion  from  France  occupied  her  ardent 
and  unselfish  ^  efforts  to  aid  Ferdinand  in  repelling  it;  and  she 
resolutely  held  illness  at  bay,  that  her  husband  might  dedicate  his 
undivided  attention  to  the  needful  military  preparations  for  defence. 


256  ISABELLA    OF  CASTILE. 

The  enemy  was  effectually  driven  back  over  tHe  border ;  and  a 
truce,  honourable  and  advantageous  to  Spain,  was  effected.  De- 
prived of  her  eldest  daughter,  and  only  son,  by  death,  and  doomed 
to  behold  her  second  daughter,  Joanna,  a  prey  to  a  living  mental 
death,  Isabella  had  to  part  with  her  youngest  daughter,  and  behold 
her  removed  to  a  distant  land.  This  princess,  known  to  us  in 
English  history  as  Catharine  of  Arragon,  had  been  affianced  at  an 
early  age  to  Arthur,  Prince  of  Wales  ;  and  was  subsequently  wed- 
ded to  him.  The  union  lasted  but  six  months  ;  and  was  by  many 
believed  to  have  been  but  a  nominal  marriage.  Henry  YIII.,  after 
his  brother's  death,  espoused  the  young  widow.  Isabella  added 
her  influence  to  her  husband's,  in  prevailing  upon  Catharine  to 
enter  into  these  second  nuptials  ;  but  she  was  spared  a  knowledge 
of  the  melancholy  catastrophe  they  ultimately  entailed  upon  her 
daughter.  Her  own  death  preceded  the  climax  of  her  daughter's 
sad  fate,  as  depicted  by  Shakespeare  with  such  noble  pathos ;  yet 
it  is  impossible  to  help  recalling  the  link  that  associates  the  affect- 
ing words  which  Shakespeare  has  placed  in  Queen  Catharine's 
mouth,  with  the  subject  of  our  narrative,  where  she  says  : — ■ 

"  They  that  my  trust  must  grow  to,  live  not  here  : 
They  are,  as  all  my  other  comforts,  far  hence, 
In  mine  own  country,  lords," 

We  can  hardly  forbear  fancying  that  her  thoughts  here  wander 
back  to  that  fond,  devoted  parent,  that  heroic-hearted  mother, 
whose  dearest  care  was  for  her  children. 

Bravely  as  Isabella  had  borne  her  multiplied  afflictions,  their 
poignancy  destroyed  her,  Kepeated  warnings  of  decay  were  ac- 
cepted with  pious  firmness,  and  she  availed  herself  of  their  indica- 
tion to  execute  her  will,  while  her  faculties  retained  their  clear- 
Dess.  This  renowned  document  is  instinct  with  her  characteristic 
virtue  and  high  principle  ;  and  remains  a  monument  of  her  grand 
mind  and  heart — showing  how  perfectly  the  gentlest  tenderness 


ISABELLA    OP    CASTILE.  257 

co-exists  with  tlie  strongest  mental  sense.    The  passages  where  she 
makes  mention  of  her  husband,  in  this  solemnly-lbeautiM  testa- 
ment, are  characteristic  in  the  extreme.    She  directs  that  her  re- 
mains may  be  transported  to  Granada,  to  the  Franciscan  monastery 
of  Santa  Isabella  in  the  Alhambra,  and  there  deposited  in  a  low 
and  humble  tomb,  without  other  memorial  than  a  plain  inscription 
on  it.    "  But,"  she  adds,  "  should  the  king  my  lord  prefer  a  sepul- 
chre in  some  other  place,  then  my  will  is  that  my  body  be  there 
transported,  and  laid  by  his  side  ;  that  the  union  we  have  enjoyed 
in  this  world,  and,  through  the  mercy  of  God,  may  hope  again  for 
our  souls  in  heaven,  may  be  represented  by  our  bodies  in  the 
earth."    And  she  concludes,  with  a  wifely  deference  exquisitely 
blended  with  the  fervour  of  affectionate  monition — such  as  had 
made  her  his  better  angel  through  life,  and  now  rendered  her  his 
guardian  spirit  in  death  : — ^"  I  beseech  the  king  my  lord  that  he 
will  accejot  all  my  jewels,  or  such  as  he  may  select,  so  that,  seeing 
them,  he  may  be  reminded  of  the  singular  love  I  always  bore  him 
while  living,  and  that  I  am  now  waiting  for  him  in  a  better  world ; 
by  which  remembrance  he  may  be  encouraged  to  live  more  justly 
and  hohly  in  this." 

A  point  in  this  will  is  worthy  of  notice,  as  a  hint  that 
might  be  judiciously  followed  by  the  generality,  who  are  prone  to 
absurd  expenditure  in  a  matter  that  this  great  queen  held  to  be 
unworthy  of  profuse  cost.  She  commanded  that  her  funeral  ob- 
sequies should  be  performed  in  the  plainest  and  most  unostenta- 
tious manner,  and  that  the  sum  saved  by  this  economy  should  be 
distributed  in  alms  among  the  poor. 

She  expired  on  the  26th  of  November,  1504,  in  the  fifty-fourth 
year  of  her  age,  and  thirtieth  of  her  reign.    Spain  lost  its  noblest 
monarch ;  lier  husband  and  family  their  best  friend  ;  her  subjects 
their  benignest  protector. 
33 


258 


ISABELLA    OF  CASTILE. 


Mr.  Prescott,  in  liis  admirable  "  History  of  Ferdinand  and  Isa- 
bella," lias  drawn  a  parallel  between  Elizabetli  of  England  and 
Isabella  of  Castile,  showing  witli  masterly  discrimination  tbe  points 
of  circumstantial  resemblance,  and  of  moral  dissimilarity,  wMcli 
existed  between  tlie  two  women-monarchs.    In  conclusion,  lie  says  : 
"  Botli  pined  amidst  their  royal  state,  a  prey  to  incurable  despon- 
dency, rather  than  to  any  marked  bodily  distemper.    In  Elizabeth 
it  sprang  from  wounded  vanity,  a  sullen  conviction  that  she  had 
outlived  the  admiration  on  which  she  had  so  long  fed— and  even 
the  solace  of  friendship  and  the  atta<jhment  of  her  subjects.  Nor 
did  she  seek  consolation,  where  alone  it  was  to  be  found,  in  that 
sad  hour.    Isabella,  on  the  other  hand,  sunk  under  a  too  acute  sen- 
sibility to  the  sufferings  of  others.    But,  amidst  the  gloom  which 
gathered  around  her,  she  looked  with  the  eye  of  faith  to  the 
brighter  prospects  which  unfolded  of  the  future ;  and,  when  she 
resigned  her  last  breath,  it  was  amidst  the  tears  and  universal  lam- 
entations of  her  people." 

A  very  beautiful  trait  in  the  character  of  Isabella,  is  her  large 
humanity.    This  is  perhaps  one  of  the  greatest— while  it  is,  alas  ! 
one  of  the  rarest  attributes  in  sovereign  rulers.    They  are  gene- 
rally so  intent  upon  the  aggrandizement  of  their  people,  that  they 
are  apt  to  omit  giving  sufficient  consideration  to  more  immediately 
pertinent  concerns.    The  social  wants  and  grievances  of  subjects 
are  less  usually  thought  for,  than  their  national  advantages  and 
state  position.    But  Isabella  had  a  woman's  solicitude  for  those 
who  were  committed  to  her  queenly  guardianship.    Not  only  was 
her  vigilance  sleepless  onbehalf  of  her  own  Castilian  people,  but  her 
interest  for  those  indirectly  within  the  scope  of  her  dominion,  was 
hardly  less  animated.    The  commiseration  she  expressed  for  the 
African  slaves  imported  into  Seville— with  her  repeated  interfer 
ences  to  procure  them  more  equal  protection  from  the  laws,  as  well 


ISABELLA    OF  CASTILE. 


259 


as  sucL  social  indulgences  as  migM  mitigate  the  hardsliips  of  their 
lot — affords  proof  of  this.  And  the  compassionate  sympathy  she 
evinced  for  the  Indian  captives  ;  desiring  lenient  measures  to  be 
taken  for  their  conversion ;  indignantly  protesting  against  having 
them  treated  with  harshness  ;  causing  missionaries  to  he  instructed 
in  the  language  of  the  natives,  so  that  persuasion  and  argument 
might  win  the  unoffending  islanders,  instead  of  consigning  them  to 
the  horrors  of  slavery ;  and  finally,  the  fact  of  her  inserting  an 
especial  clause  in  the  codicil  to  her  last  testament,  wherein  she  ear- 
nestly enjoins  her  successors  to  quicken  the  good  work  of  convert- 
ing and  civilizing  the  poor  Indians,  to  treat  them  with  the  greatest 
gentleness,  and  redress  any  wrongs  they  may  have  suffered  in  their 
persons  or  property — eloquently  bespeak  her  humane  and  enlight- 
ened spuit.  "The  way  in  which  she  obtained  commutation  of  the 
most  rigorous  portion  of  the  sentence  passed  upon  an  assassin  who 
attempted  Ferdinand's  life,  bears  evidence  of  her  merciful  disposi- 
tion ;  and  the  endeavours  she  made  to  lessen  the  ferocity  attending 
the  national  sport  of  bullfights,  at  the  same  time  exhibiting  due 
regard  for  popular  predilection,  proclaim  her  united  wisdom  and 
benevolence. 

Besides  her  passionate  attachment  to  her  mother,  husband,  and 
children,  her  friendships  were  warm  and  lasting.  In  the  arms  of 
her  earliest  and  dearest  friend,  Beatrice,  Marchioness  of  Moya,  who 
was  seldom  separated  from  her  royal  mistress  during  life,  Isabella 
yielded  her  last  breath ;  and  her  faithful  adherent,  Peter  Martyr, 
in  a  letter  written  on  the  very  day  of  the  queen's  death,  says,  with 
mournful  fervour :— "  My  hand  falls  powerless  by  my  side  for  very 
sorrow.  The  world  has  lost  its  noblest  ornament ;  a  loss  to  be  de- 
plored not  only  by  Spain,  which  she  has  so  long  carried  forward 
in  the  career  of  glory,  but  by  every  nation  in  Christendom ;  for 
she  was  the  mirror  of  every  virtue,  the  shield  of  the  innocent,  and 


ISABELLA    OF  CASTILE. 

an  avenging  sword  to  the  wicked.  I  know  none  of  lier  sex,  in  an- 
cient or  modern  times,  wlio  in  my  judgment  is  at  all  worthy  to  be 
named  with  tliis  incomparable  woman."  Suck  a  testimony  from 
one  wko  was  in  close  and  intimate  opportunity  of  witnessing  ker 
course  of  conduct  for  a  long  period  of  years,  comes  witk  affecting 

weigkt.  " 

Bayard,  tke  ckevaker  "  Sans  peur  et  sans  reprocke,"  in  kis 
ckivakous  admiration  of  ker  ackievement  in  recovering  tke  king- 
dom of  Granada  from  Moorisk  sway  by  force  of  arms,  is  an  evi- 
dence of  ker  martial  repute.  In  adverting  to  ker  deatk— after 
calling  ker  "  one  of  tke  most  triumpkant  and  glorious  ladies  tkat 
for  tkree  tkousand  years  katk  dwelt  upon  tkis  eartk  "— ke  says,  in 
tke  quaint  faskion  of  an  old  ckronicler,  witk  kis  antique  Frenck 
diction,  and  poetic  colouring : — ■ 

"  Je  veux  bien  asseurer  aux  lecteurs  de  ceste  presente  hystoire,  que  sa  vie  a  este 
telle  qu'elle  a  bien  merite  couronne  de  laurier  apres  sa  mort." 

["  I  can  assure  tbe  readers  of  this  my  present  history,  her  life  hath  been  such, 
that  she  hath  well  merited  a  crown  of  laurel  after  death."] 

Her  patronage  of  letters,  ker  encouragement  of  intellectual 
culture  among  tke  ladies  of  ker  court,  ker  admirable  system  of 
education  for  tke  prince,  ker  son,  as  keir-apparent  to  tke  tkrone, 
ker  engagement  of  tke  ablest  preceptors  for  tke  infantas,  ker 
daugkters,  ker  inducements  to  men  of  learning  to  settle  in  Spain, 
ker  sagacious  discernment  of  talent,  and  ker  taste  for  collecting 
books,  are  so  many  exempkfications  of  ker  mental  perspicacity ; 
wkile  tke  introduction  of  tke  art  of  printiDg  into  Spain,  at  tke 
very  outset  of  ker  accession,  most  opportunely  tended  to  promote 
ker  enkgktened  efforts.  Isabella's  reign  formed  a  kterary  epock  in 
ker  country. 

Ske  was  singularly  free  from  prejudice,  and  kad  none  of  tke 
narrow  dislike  of  foreign  or  rival  excellence  common  to  inferior 


ISABELLA    OF  CASTILE. 


261 


natures ;  yet  lier  fine  understanding  allowed  full  weight  to  national 
feeling,  popular  preference,  and  public  opinion.  She  was  so  much 
in  advance  of  her  age,  that  the  manner  in  which  she  made 
public  opinion  a  main  guide  of  her  actions,  while  preserving  the 
integrity  of  her  own  faith  and  principle,  anticipated  the  wisdom 
with  which  sovereign  power  is  now  controuled  by  this  mighty 
element.  Isabella  possessed  foresight,  tolerance,  prudence,  and 
benevolence;  and  wherever  those  virtues  failed  to  operate  actively, 
it  was  because  they  were  restrained  by  an  influence  to  which  she 
yielded  her  own  will.  Meek  as  she  was  gifted,  her  modest  self- 
mistrust  and  pious  humility  rendered  her  docile  to  remonstrance 
from  her  spiritual  directors ;  and  advantage  was  taken  of  her 
reverence  for  religion  to  obtain  her  acquiescence  in  deeds  of  bigotry 
and  persecution  performed  in  its  sacred  name,  which  were  the  only 
blots  on  her  otherwise  unblemished  career. 

Her  reign  exists  a  period  of  glory  and  advancement  to  Spain  ; 
her  life  was  a  beneficent  influence  and  lasting  blessing  to  her  sub- 
jects ;  and  her  memory  will  be  cherished,  in  immortal  honour,  by 
her  native  country.  Isabella  of  Castile  was  the  model  of  a  virtuous 
woman,  and  arch-admirable  queen. 


Unv.-  YnrH  D.>kppl5«OH(lfC»  3«  «r  3*3,  HimdwaT 


LADY  JANE  GPtET. 

Lady  Jane  Geet  affords  an  illustrious  instance  of  youthful  erudi- 
tion in  a  lady,  higli-born,  beautiful,  and  modest,  Slie  was  of  royal 
descent,  yet  meek  and  unassuming  ;  learned,  yet  simple.  She  had 
neither  vanity,  pride,  nor  ambition ;  although  her  charms  of  per- 
son, her  acquirements,  and  her  exalted  rank,  might,  in  a  young 
lady  of  weaker  mind,  have  generated  all  three. 

Unfortunately,  her  family  connections  were  not  equally  free 
from  these  defects:  for  they  were  vain  of  Lady  Jane's  beauty, 
and  took  advantage  of  her  gentleness  to  treat  her  with  severity, 
and  ultimately  with  cruelty :  they  were  proud  of  her  endowments, 
yet  behaved  as  if  she  had  neither  sense,  feeling,  nor  volition  ;  and 
they  made  her  birth  and  position  a  source  of  their  selfish  ambi- 
tion, sacrificing  her  to  it  without  remorse,  or  even  the  common 
natural  affection  of  kindred. 

Lady  Jane  Grey  was  born  in  1537,  at  Broadgate,  her  father's 
seat  in  Leicestershire.  She  was  of  the  blood-royal  of  England, 
being  great  grand-daughter  to  Henry  YIL;  whose  daughter, 
Mary,  married,  first,  Louis  XII.  of  France,  and  secondly,  Charles 
Brandon,  Duke  of  Suffolk,  by  whom  she  had  a  daughter,  the  lady 
Frances  Brandon,  married  to  Henry  Grey,  Marquis  of  Dorset — • 
Lady  Jane  Grey's  father. 


264  LADYJANEGREY. 

That  Cliarles  Brandon  was  tlie  gallant  Gentleman,  whose  ro- 
mantic fortune  is  like  a  tale  of  chivalry.  In  his  boyish  clays  he 
was  a  playmate  of  the  Prince  Henry,  afterwards  Henry  VHI.; 
and  Princess  Mary,  afterwards  Queen  of  France.  The  royal 
brother  and  sister  felt  a  strong  affection  for  the  handsome,  accom- 
plished youth, — an  affection  which  subsequently  took  the  form  of 
friendship  in  "  bluff  King  Hal,"  and  love  in  the  beautiful  widow  of 
Louis  XII.,  who  married  the  object  of  her  early  preference,  when 
released  from  the  tie  of  a  State  alliance.  Charles  Brandon  received 
with  the  rapturous  eagerness  of  a  lover  the  happiness  his  mistress 
bestowed,  by  wedding  her  privately  and  immediately ;  but  with 
the  true  spirit  of  noble  feeling,  he  marked  his  delicate  sense  of  the 
honour  she  had  conferred,  by  appearing  at  a  tournament  given  in 
celebration  of  their  public  nuptials,  on  a  saddle-cloth,  made  half  of 
frize  and  half  of  cloth  of  gold,  bearing  a  motto  on  each  half: — 

"  Cloth  of  frize,  be  not  too  bold, 
Though  thou  art  match'd  with  cloth  of  gold." 

And, — 

"  Cloth  of  gold,  do  not  despise 
Though  thou  art  match'd  with  cloth  of  frize." 

This  piece  of  fine  taste  in  her  maternal  grandfather,  is  like  the 
germ  of  that  mingled  humility  and  dignity  which  Lady  Jane  Grey 
possessed  in  so  remarkable  a  degree — and  which  is,in  fact,  moral 
dignity.  That  nobility  of  soul,  which,  while  it  perceives  its  own 
capacity  for  high  and  refined  excellence,  is  content  to  advance  no 
claims,  enabled  Lady  Jane  Grey  not  only  to  bear  mildly  the 
austerities  of  her  girlhood,  but  to  endure  with  fortitude  and  resig- 
nation the  calamities  that  beset  her  youth,  and  brought  her  inno- 
cent life  to  a  premature  close.  The  strict,  and  even  rigid  authority 
which  it  was  then  the  custom  for  parents  to  exercise  towards  their 
children ;  the  excess  of  respectful  distance  observed  by  the  latter 


LADY    JANE  GREY. 


265 


towards  tliem,  can  alone  account  for  tlie  rigorous  treatment  Lady 
J ane  Grey  experienced  from  lier  fatlier  and  motlier  in  cMldliood ; 
wliile  slie,  with  lier  native  sweetness  of  disposition,  made  it  but  an 
extra  motive  for  reaping  deliglit  and  solace  from  study,  for  wliicli 
slie  showed  an  extraordinary  capacity  at  an  early  age. 

Her  parents,  proud  of  her  talents,  and  anxious  that  they  should 
obtain  due  cultivation,  engaged  as  her  preceptor,  John  Aylmer, 
afterwards  Bishop  of  London.  She  also  received  instruction  from 
the  erudite  Roger  Ascham ;  and  she  seems  to  have  inspu*ed  both 
these  learned  men  with  the  fondest  partiality  for  their  fair  young 
pupil.  Many  learned  divines  entertained  great  admiration  for  her ; 
and  expressed  themselves  in  terms  so  flattering  on  her  behalf,  that, 
had  she  been  less  devoid  of  self-sufficiency,  it  might  have  proved 
injurious.  Between  herself  and  Ascham,  indeed,  there  existed 
an  affectionate  intimacy  of  intercourse  not  often  to  be  found 
between  a  girl  of  her  years  and  a  man  of  his.  She  confided  to 
him  her  home  griefs  and  her  home  resources,  with  a  candour 
touchingly  artless.  In  reply  to  his  enquiry,  how  it  was  that  at 
her  age,  she  had  attained  such  proficiency  in  languages,  and  acquir- 
ed such  a  habit  of  study,  she  wrote  him  a  letter,  wherein  she 
says  : — "  I  will  tell  you  a  truth,  which,  perchance,  you  will  marvel  at. 
One  of  the  greatest  benefits  which  ever  God  gave  me  is,  that  he 
sent  me  such  sharp  and  severe  parents,  and  so  gentle  a  teacher. 
For,  when  I  am  in  presence  either  of  my  father  or  mother,  whether 
I  speak,  keep  silence,  sit,  stand,  or  go ;  eat,  diink,  be  merry,  or  sad ; 
be  sewing,  playing,  dancing,  or  doing  anything  else,  I  must  do  it, 
as  it  were,  in  such  weight,  measure,  and  number,  even  so  perfectly, 
as  God  made  the  world.  Or  else — am  so  sharply  taunted,  so 
cruelly  threatened,  nay,  prevented  sometimes,  with  pinches,  nips, 
and  bobs,  and  other  ways,  which  I  will  not  name,  for  the  honour 
which  I  bear  my  parents — I  am  so  disordered,  that  I  think  myselt 
34 


LADY    JANE  GREY. 

in  hell,  till  the  moment  comes  that  I  must  go  to  Mr.  Aylmer ;  who 
teacheth  me  so  gently,  so  pleasantly,  and  with  such  fair  allurements 
to  learning,  that  I  think  all  the  time  nothing  while  I  am  with  him, 
but  when  I  am  called  from  him  I  fall  a  weeping ;  because  what- 
ever else  I  do  but  learning,  is  full  of  grief,  fear,  and  trouble. 
And  thus  my  book  hath  been  so  much  my  pleasure,  and  bringeth 
daily  to  me  more  enjoyment,  that,  in  respect  of  it,  all  other  plea- 
sures, in  very  deed,  be  but  trifles  and  troubles  unto  me." 

She  drew  the  truest  philosophy  from  her  reading;  for  she 
taught  herself  the  happy  wisdom  of  turning  evils  into  sources 
of  good  ;  and  learned  the  divine  secret,  how  to  suck  the  honey  of 
content,  instead  of  the  gall  of  discontent,  from  life's  trials.  That 
she  spoke  nothing  but  truths,  when  she  said,  that  compared  with 
the  pleasure  and  enjoyment  she  derived  from  her  book,  all  other 
pleasures  were  trifling  to  her,  we  find  from  an  interesting  anecdote 
related  by  Ascham  to  a  friend  of  his.  On  one  occasion,  paying 
a  visit  to  the  Marquis  of  Dorset,  at  Broadgate,  he  found  all  the 
family  out  in  the  park  on  a  hunting  excursion,  with  the  exception 
of  Lady  Jane,  whom  he  discovered  in  her  own  apartment,  alone, 
engaged  in  reading  Plato  in  the  original  Greek.  She  understood 
that  language  perfectly ;  although  then  not  fifteen  years  of  age. 
She  spoke  and  wrote  Greek,  Latin,  Italian,  and  French,  with 
fluency  and  correctness ,  and  was  acquainted  with  Hebrew,  Chal- 
dee,  and  Arabic. 

Such  classical  knowledge  in  a  young  lady  of  high  rank,  was  by 
no  means  a  singular  instance  at  that  period ;  for  the  Duchess  ot 
Somerset's  three  daughters,  Lady  Jane,  Lady  Margaxet,  and  Lady 
Mary  Seymour  were  distinguished  by  similar  attainments,  and  were 
considered  to  be  the  most  learned  and  accomplished  ladies  in  Europe, 
with  the  exception  of  the  Princess  Mary,  (afterwards  Queen  Mary 
I.)  and  the  Lady  Jane  Grey.    Queen  Elizabeth,  also,  was  versed 


LADY    JANE    GREY.  267 

in  the  classics,  so  tliat  altliougli  Lady  Jane  Grey  ranked  as  one  of 
tlie  first  lady-students  of  the  time,  she  stood  not  alone  in  her  pre- 
eminence. Lady  Jane,  in  a  manner,  partook  of  the  same  education 
with  her  royal  cousins ;  Ascham  having  been  tutor  to  the  Princess 
Ehzabeth,  and  Latin  secretary  to  Edward  VI.  Li  the  princess 
Mary's  private  account-book,  where  she  kept  a  list  of  her  jewels, 
there  is  an  entry  bearing  evidence  of  the  friendly  intercourse 
which  then  existed  between  the  young  kinswomen ;  while  it  in- 
volves impressive  points  of  subsequent  association. — ^Mary's  hand 
wrote  this  entry;  the  same  hand  that  afterwards  signed  Jane's 
death  warrant.  The  entry  registers  a  gift  for  Lady  Jane  Grey's 
throat : — that  fair  throat  which  was  ordered  to  be  severed  by  the 
headsman.  "  One  gold  necklace,  set  with  pearls, — given  to  my 
cousin  Jane  Grey."  We  seem  to  see  in  place  of  those  words  : — "A 
red  necklace,  red  with  blood, — ^given  to  my  cousin  Jane  Grey." 
The  origin  of  ill-feeling  on  the  part  of  Mary  towards  one  who  sub- 
sequently became  her  rival  claimant  to  the  English  throne,  may  be 
traced  to  difference  of  religious  opinion.  The  Princess  Mary  was 
a  staunch  Catholic ;  Lady  Jane  Grey  was  equally  devoted  to  Pro- 
testant principles,  being  fii-mly  and  strongly  attached  to  them. 
Mary  adhered  to  her  creed,  none  the  less  scrupulously  from  its 
being  almost  proscribed.  There  was  a  kind  of  heroism  in  abiding 
by  a  ritual  that  incurred  risk  of  persecution  in  its  performance ; 
and,  moreover,  her  character  was  obstinate,  and  her  faith  zealous 
to  bigotry.  Lady  Jane,  from  her  intimacy  with  Church  of  Eng- 
land prelates,  and  her  own  mental  powers,  was  warm  in  her  advo- 
cacy for  the  tenets  she  professed.  An  incident  recorded  of  the  two 
cousins,  bears  out  the  view  of  the  probable  source  of  their  mutual 
variance.  During  the  summer  of  1552,  the  Princess  Mary  received 
Lady  Jane  Grey  as  her  guest  at  ISTev/  Hall.  The  mass,  and  other 
rites  of  her  persuasion,  were  constantly  performed  in  Mary's 


268  LADYJANEGIIBY. 

domestic  lioiiseliold,  notwithstanding  the  prohibition  that  existed 
against  their  celebration.  It  chanced  that  Lady  Wharton  (one 
of  the  Princess  Mary's  ladies)  passing  through  the  chapel  at  New 
Hall,  in  company  with  Lady  Jane  Grey,  at  a  time  when  service 
was  not  going  on,  made  a  genuflexion  to  the  host,  which  was  in  the 
sanctuary  on  the  altar.  Lady  Jane  asked  "  if  the  Lady  Mary  were 
in  the  chapel  ? "    Lady  Wharton  said,  "  No." 

"  Why  then,  do  you  courtesy  ?  "  asked  Lady  Jane  Grey. 

"  I  courtesy  to  him  that  made  me  ;  "  replied  Lady  Wharton. 

"  Nay,"  said  Lady  Jane  Grey,  "  but  did  not  the  baker  make 
him  ? " 

This  flippant  retort,  alluding  to  the  consecrated  wafer  in  a 
mode  that  could  not  but  be  deeply  offensive  to  the  religious  belief 
of  the  person  she  addressed,  was  perhaps  pardonable  in  a  young  girl, 
hot  in  controverted  doctrinal  points ;  but  it  would  have  been  well  for 
her,  and  more  in  accordance  with  the  beautiful  meekness  and  fine 
understanding  which  characterized  Lady  Jane  Grey  on  other  occa- 
sions than  this,  had  her  reply  been  actuated  by  the  spirit  of  Sir 
Thomas  Browne's  noble  sentence : — "  At  the  sight  of  a  cross  or 
crucifix,  I  can  dispense  with  my  hat,  but  scarce  with  the  thought 
of  my  Saviour.  I  could  never  hear  the  Ave  Maria  bell  without 
an  elevation,  or  think  it  a  sufficient  warrant,  because  they  erred  in 
one  circumstance,  for  me  to  err  in  all — that  is  in  silence  and  dumb 
contempt." 

Unfortunately,  Lady  Jane's  uttered  "  contempt "  was  reported 
to  her  cousin  Mary ;  who,  it  is  certain,  never  after  that  time  loved 
Lady  Jane  Grey  as  she  had  done  before.  Another  circumstance 
equally  confirms  the  idea  of  what  formed  the  basis  of  the  two 
cousins'  disagreement.  The  princess  had  presented  Lady  Jane  with 
a  rich  dress  ;  and  it  is  more  than  probable  that  there  were  plenty 
of  court  whisperers  to  repeat  the  terms  in  which  Lady  Jane 


LADY    JANE  GREY. 


269 


remarked  \ipoii  the  sinfulness  of  wearing  this  gift  from  "  one  wlio 
left  God's  word." 

But  the  Protestant  ardour  wLicli  prompted  Lady  Jane  Grey  to 
make  these  indiscreet  animadversions  upon  lier  cousin  Mary's  form 
of  belief,  and  wMeli  gave  suck  umbrage  to  the  person  who  was 
their  object,  formed  the  main  ground  of  her  cousin  Edward  VL's  • 
approval.  The  young  king,  who  was  of  the  same  age  as  herself, 
had  always  entertained  a  high  and  admiring  esteem  for  Lady  Jane 
Grey.  The  progress  she  made  in  her  studies  won  his  respect  and 
regard ;  while  her  elegant  person  and  amiable  disposition  had 
inspired  him  with  great  affection  for  her.  The  opportunities  he 
had  enjoyed  of  becoming  acquainted  with  the  tenor  of  her  reli- 
gious principles,  as  well  as  with  the  fervour  and  strength  of  her 
adherence  to  them,  caused  him  to  listen  with  greater  complacency 
to  those  suggestions  for  setting  aside  his  sister's  claims  to  the  crown 
in  favour  of  his  cousin.  Lady  Jane  Grey,  and  appointing  her  his 
successor,  than  he  might  probably  otherwise  have  done. 

The  chief  instigator  of  this  proposal  was  the  Duke  of  Northum- 
berland, a  crafty  and  intriguing  nobleman,  who  contrived  to  possess 
himself  of  the  young  king's  ear,  during  the  lingering  malady  which 
seized  Edward  VI. ;  and  having  previously  effected  an  alliance 
which  rendered  the  interests  of  Lady  Jane  Grey  uniform  with 
those  of  his  own  family,  he  neglected  no  argument  which  might 
induce  the  king  to  listen  to  his  plan  for  placing  her  on  the  throne, 
Northumberland  had  caused  the  Marquis  of  Dorset  to  be  created 
Duke  of  Suffolk ;  and  then  he  prevailed  with  him  to  bestow  his 
daughter,  Lady  Jane  Grey,  in  marriage  upon  Lord  Guilford 
Dudley,  Northumberland's  fourth  son.  The  languishing  state  of 
the  young  king's  health,  made  him  a  facile  prey  to  the  designing 
courtier  ;  whose  plausible  representations,  joined  to  his  own  predi- 
lection for  Lady  Jane  Grey,  and  his  anxiety  to  secure  a  Protestant 


270  L  A  D  Y    J  A  N  E    G  R  E  y  . 

successor,  rendered  it  little  difficult  to  obtain  from  Edward  VI.  a 
deed  in  lier  favour. 

The  king's  sudden  death  followed  almost  immediately  upon  the 
execution  of  this  document ;  and  Northumberland,  knowing  that 
the  concerted  change  in  the  succession,  would  raise  violent  opposi- 
tion, carefully  concealed  the  destination  of  the  crown  signed  by 
Edward.  He  kept  the  royal  demise  a  secret  as  long  as  he  could, 
with  a  view  of  getting  the  two  sister  princesses  into  his  power  ;  for 
he  had  persuaded  the  council  to  write  letters,  desiiing  the  presence 
of  Mary  and  Elizabeth  at  court,  on  the  plea  that  the  king's  precari- 
ous state  of  health  demanded  the  aid  of  their  ad^dce,  and  the  comfort 
of  their  company.  But  the  intelhgence  of  their  brother's  death  hav- 
ing actually  taken  place,  reached  the  princesses  in  time  to  warn 
them  of  the  snare  that  was  tendered  them ;  and  they  kept  aloof 
from  London.  Mary,  upon  receiving  these  tidings,  wrote  letters 
to  the  nobility  and  chief  gentry  in  every  county  of  England,  sum- 
moning them  to  assist  her  in  the  defence  of  her  rights  ;  and 
Northumberland,  perceiving  that  farther  dissimulation  would  be 
useless,  proceeded  to  carry  out  his  deep-laid  schemes. 

He  repaired  to  Sion  House,  where  Lady  Jane  Grey  had  resided 
since  her  marriage  with  his  son ;  and,  accompanied  by  the  Duke 
of  Suffolk  and  a  train  of  nobles,  he  approached  her  with  all  the 
respect  paid  to  royalty,  and  addressed  her  as  his  sovereign.  He 
informed  her  that  she  was  now  Queen  of  England,  in  virtue  of  her 
cousin  Edward  YI.'s  decree  in  her  favour.  Lady  Jane,  who  was 
wholly  ignorant  of  the  intrigues  of  her  father-in-law,  and  who  her- 
self was  free  from  ambition,  heard  this  announcement  with  little 
short  of  dismay.  Her  studious  habits,  her  love  of  intellectual 
pleasures,  her  preference  for  quiet  and  retirement,  rendered  her 
peculiarly  averse  from  grandeur  and  regal  state.  In  addition  to 
her  native  delight  in  the  pursuit  of  learning,  her  heart  was  now 


LADY    JANE  GREY. 


273 


filled  witli  a  still  tenderer  interest — love  for  her  young  husband, 
who  was  worthy  of  her  affection.  But  not  only  did  her  own  predi- 
lections cause  her  to  feel  disinclined  for  the  onerous  burthen  of  a 
crown ;  her  sense  of  justice  taught  her  that  the  claims  of  others, 
better  entitled,  were  infringed  by  this  assertion  of  her  own.  She 
refused  the  royal  dignity  they  offered;  denied  her  right  to  the 
throne ;  urged  the  preferable  titles  of  her  cousins,  the  princess 
Mary  and  princess  Ehzabeth ;  expressed  her  dread  of  the  results 
which  must  attend  an  enterprise  so  perilous  and  so  criminal  as  an 
attempt  to  make  her  queen  in  their  stead  ;  and  entreated  that  she 
might  be  suffered  to  remain  in  the  private  station  in  which  she  had 
been  born.  Northumberland,  not  to  be  moved  from  his  purpose, 
engaged  her  father  to  second  him  in  his  remonstrances ;  and  the 
two  ambitious  dukes  joined  in  importunity  with  her  to  yield  to 
their  wishes.  The  innocent  victim  of  their  fatal  greed,  withstood 
their  cruel  and  selfish  pleading,  until  Lord  Guilford  Dudley,  the 
husband  she  so  fondly  loved,  added  the  weight  of  his  persuasions 
to  those  of  her  parents,  and  father-in-law ;  and  then,  no  longer 
able  to  resist  the  mingled  instancy  of  authority  and  affection,  she 
yielded — ^though  with  shuddering  reluctance,  and  painfullest  fore- 
boding. Her  own  subsequent  account  of  this  scene,  declares  its 
distressing  nature.  In  a  letter,  addressed  to  Queen  Mary  I.  from 
the  Tower,  Lady  Jane  Grey  describes  her  consternation  when 
Northumberland  first  announced  the  news,  doing  her  homage  as 
queen  ;  her  agony  of  mind  at  the  importunities  of  her  relations  ; 
and  her  final  falling  to  the  ground  in  a  swoon,  from  present  agita- 
tion, and  future  ill-presage. 

She  now  became  a  passive  instrument  in  the  hands  of  the  un- 
scrupulous Duke  of  Northumberland ;  who  immediately  conveyed 
her  to  London,  where  she  was  proclaimed  queen ;  but  without  one 
applauding  voice.    The  people  heard  the  proclamation  with  silence 


LADYJANEGREY. 

and  concern ;  tlie  preachers  themselves  (wlio  were  naturally  eager 
to  advocate  tlie  claims  of  a  known  firm  Protestant  as  successor  to 
the  throne)  employing  their  eloquence  in  vain  to  convince  their  au- 
ditors of  the  justice  of  Lady  Jane's  title.  Kespect  for  the  royal 
line,  and  indignation  against  the  factious  and  aspiring  duke,  were 
stronger  even  in  the  breasts  of  Protestants  than  the  dread  of  po- 
pery.   Reverence  for  right  is  a  religion  with  the  English  people. 

According  to  established  custom,  on  the  accession  of  a  sovereign, 
the  Tower  of  London  became  the  place  of  royal  residence  during 
the  first  days  of  reign;  and  Lady  Jane  Grey,  as  the  new  queen, 
was  conducted  thither  by  her  father-in-law. 

Every  thing  tends  to  confirm  the  extreme  unwillingness  with 
which  Lady  Jane  shared  in  any  of  the  proceedings  of  her  relatives 
to  assume  regal  state  on  her  behalf.    She  took  no  step  of  her  own 
accord  ;  and  even  resisted  their  attempts  to  make  her  elevation  a 
pretext  for  advancing  their  own.    She  went  so  far  as  to  incur  the 
resentment  of  her  husband,  by  opposing  plans  for  his  adoption  of 
power,  inconsistent  with  the  limits  appointed  for  the  consort  of  a 
queen-regnant  in  England.    This  is  demonstrated  by  her  own  de- 
scription of  an  incident  that  occurred.    On  her  being  conveyed  to 
the  Tower,  as  queen,  the  Marquis  of  Winchester— unsent  for— 
brought  her  the  crown  to  try  on  her  head,  to  see  how  it  would  fit 
her ;  and  when  she  scrupled  to  put  it  on,  the  Marcpis  said  that 
she  need  not  do  so,  for  he  would  have  another  made  to  crown  her 
husband  withal.    To  this  hinted  idea  of  coronation  for  her  hus- 
band. Lady  Jane  strenuously  objected;  and  she  consequently  drew 
upon  herself  coarse  and  violent  behaviour  from  both  him  and  his 
mother,  the  Duchess  of  Northumberland.    They  seem  actually  to 
have  resorti^d  to  personal  ill-usage ;  for  she  says,  with  indignant 
emphasis,  "  I  was  maltreated  by  my  husband  and  his  mother." 
Thus  supervened  the  first  of  those  disastrous  results,  which  the 


LADY    JANE  GEEY 


273 


hapless  Lady  Jane  foresaw  must  accrue  from  lier  unjust  accession  to 
queenly  station.  Her  young  husband,  who,  when  they  together 
enjoyed  their  happy  privacy,  was  united  to  her  by  loving  confi- 
dence— now  that  the  seeds  of  ambition  had  been  made  to  spring 
up  in  his  mind  by  this  ripened  project  of  his  father,  was  led  to  treat 
her  with  harshness  and  unkindness. 

In  all  ways^  Lady  Jane  was  the  unoffending  sufferer  from  the 
misdeeds  of  others.  She  was  made  the  means  of  advancinsf  their 
selfish  ends ;  and  when  blame  or  danger  ensued  in  consequence  of 
their  acts,  she  was  made  the  scapegoat  and  sacrifice  to  endure  the 
penalty  for  them. 

The  princess  Mary  lost  no  time  in  asserting  her  claims,  and 
striving  to  make  them  good.  She  succeeded  in  levying  a  large 
force.  The  people  declared  for  her,  when  she  assured  them  that 
she  had  no  intention  of  altering  the  laws  of  Edward  VI.,  as  re- 
garded religion  ;  and  the  nobility  and  gentry  supported  her  cause 
by  daily  reinforcements.  .    .  ;  .. 

Northumberland,  at  the  head  of  the  troops,  marched  to  resist 
Mary's  army  ;  but  he  not  only  sustained  defeat — he  abandoned  the 
stake  he  had  so  shamelessly  played  for,  by  as  shameful  a  with- 
drawal, and  forsook  Lady  Jane's  cause  with  as  little  compunction 
as  he  had  forced  her  into  becoming  its  centre.  He,  her  unworthy 
father-in-law,  basely  betrayed  the  allegiance  he  'had  compelled 
Queen  Jane  to  accept,  by  being  the  first  man  to  throw  up  his  cap 
in  Cambridge  market-place,  and  cry,  "  God  save  Queen  Mary  !  " 

The  Duke  of  Suffolk,  who  commanded  in  the  Tower,  was  no 
truer  to  the  unhappy  daughter,  whom  he  had  constrained  to  come 
there  as  queen ;  for,  finding  the  struggle  hopeless,  he  threw  open 
the  gates  of  the  fortress,  and  beheld  Lady  Jane  arrested  and  lodged 
in  the  prison  rooms  of  the  very  place  where  she  had  nominally 
reigned  for  nine  days. 
85 


274  LADY    JANE  GREY. 

No  sympatliy  for  the  fate  of  his  child,  however,  seems  to  have 
touched  the  father's  heart  so  keenly  as  anxiety  for  his  own.  He 
was  himself  detained  a  prisoner  in  the  Tower ;  and  this  circum- 
stance  occupied  both  his  wife  and  himself  so  entirely  as  to  leave  no 
room  for  thought  of  their  daughter's  peril — a  peril,  which  they 
themselves  had  been  so  instrumental  in  bringing  upon  her.  The 
Duchess  of  Suffolk,  directly  her  husband  was  imprisoned,  hastened 
to  throw  herself  at  Queen  Mary's  feet ;  and  left  no  plea  unurged 
that  might  effect  his  liberation.    She  represented  that  the  Duke 
was  in  ill  health,  (although  there  is  no  evidence  to  prove  that 
this  was  the  case,)  and  that  he  would  die  if  confined  within  the 
walls  of  the  Tower.    Mary  was  moved  by  her  lamentations  and 
entreaties.    She  granted  Suffolk's  liberation ;  and  three  days'  im 
prisonment  was  all  the  penalty  he  suffered  for  his  conspiring  with 
Northumberland  to  compel  Lady  Jane  Grey's  acceptance  of  the 
crown.    The  heartlessness  of  the  father,  is  only  equalled  by  that 
of  the  mother.    There  is  no  record  of  one  word  having  been  ut- 
tered by  the  Duchess  Erances  in  intercession  for  her  unfortunate 
daughter ;  who  now  lay  a  captive  from  having  pursued  that  very 
course,  which  her  mother  had  been  one  of  the  most  active  agents 
in  urging  her  to  adopt.    The  Duchess  had  promoted  her  marriage 
with  Northumberland's  son ;  she  had  used  her  maternal  influence 
on  the  momentous  occasion  at  Sion  House ;  and  she  had  borne  her 
train  as  queen,  during  her  brief  pageant  of  royalty.    A  more  con- 
sistent instance  of  parental  barbarity  towards  a  child  so  dutiful 
and  gentle  as  Lady  Jane  Grey,  than  she  experienced,  can  hardly  be 
cited.    They  coerced  her  in  childhood,  they  sacrificed  her  in  youth, 
with  a  want  of  common  natural  feeling  almost  incredible. 

The  Duke  of  Northumberland  was  brought  to  trial,  condemned, 
and  beheaded  for  high  treason;  and  sentence  was  pronounced 
against  Lady  Jane  Grey,  and  Lord  Guilford  Dudley,  although 


LADY  JANE 


GREY. 


tliey  were  resj^ited  on  account  of  tlieir  youtli,  neither  of  them  liav 
ing  attained  tlie  age  of  seventeen.  It  is  related,  that  the  same 
time-serving  lord-treasurer,  the  Marquis  of  Winchester,  who  brought 
Lady  Jane  the  crown,  unbidden,  in  the  period  of  her  ascendancy, 
— when  Mary's  coronation  was  ]Dreparing,  came  to  the  gentle  pri- 
soner in  the  Tower,  and  told  her  that  several  valuable  jewels  were 
missing  from  the  state  crown,  and  that  she  was  accountable  for 
them.  On  this  pretence,  all  the  money  and  jewels  of  Lady  Jane 
and  her  husband  were  confiscated. 

Mary  had  no  sooner  ascended  the  throne,  than  she  forfeited  her 
pledged  word  to  the  people,  by  proceeding  to  manifest  her  par- 
tiality for  the  Catholic  cause.  As  Fuller  pithily  says: — "Queen 
Mary  got  the  crown  by  Our  Father^  and  held  it  by  Paternoster. 
The  violent  party-spirit  that  raged  at  this  period  in  the  metropolis 
is  described  by  Mr.  Edward  Underhill*,  a  Worcestershire  gentle- 
man; who,  on  account  of  his  flaming  Calvinism  was  called  the 
"Hot  Gospeller."  He  had  penned  a  satirical  ballad  against 
"  Papists  ;  "  and  for  this  squib  was  summoned  before  the  council  in 
authority,  and  condemned  to  imprisonment.  A  child  was  born  to 
him  while  he  was  in  the  Tower,  which  chanced  to  be  during  the 
period  of  Lady  Jane's  brief  royalty ;  and  it  is  a  significant  cir- 
cumstance that  she  was  about  to  have  stood  godmother  to  the 
"  Hot  Gospeller's "  baby,  when  her  reign  ceased. 

Mary's  favour  to  the  Romish  church  was  more  and  more 
openly  displayed ;  until,  at  length,  her  proposed  union  with  Philip 
of  Spain  becoming  known,  it  raised  a  hope  in  the  oj)posite  faction 
that  popular  party-feeling  would  be  sufficiently  strong  against  the 
intended  match,  to  warrant  their  taking  up  arms  again.  The  week 
after  the  marriage  articles  became  public,  three  insurrections  broke 
out  in  different  parts  of  England.  One  of  these  was  actually 
headed  by  the  Duke  of  Suffolk,  with  the  express  view  of  Lady  Jane 


276  LADYJANEGREY. 

Grey's  restoration  to  tliat  position  slie  liad  so  shunned,  and  which 
had  already  proved  so  calamitous  to  her.  So  infatuated  was  this 
self-engrossed  father,  that  no  warning  could  deter  him  from  his 
prone  pursuit  of  the  regal  phantom  he  clutched  at.  He  was  as 
mean  in  duplicity :  as  mad  and  selfish  in  ambition  :  for  he  had  so 
completely  deceived  Queen  Mary,  by  affected  approval  of  the  pro- 
posed Spanish  marriage,  that  she  thought  of  employing  him  to 
quell  Wyatt's  revolt  in  Kent ;  and  sending  for  him  to  Sion  house, 
found  he  had  decamped  to  head  his  own  insurrection  in  the  mid- 
land counties.  His  brothers.  Lord  Thomas  and  Lord  John  Grey,  ■ 
were  with  him;  and  a  strong  party  of  horse  they  had  raised.  They 
took  their  way  to  Leicestershire;  proclaiming  Lady  Jane  Grey 
Queen,  in  every  town  through  which  they  passed.  She,  in  whose 
name  such  rash  deeds  were  performed,  was  still  a  prisoner  in  the 
Tower,  lying  under  suspended  sentence  of  death,  and  each  fresh 
delinquency  on  their  part  acted  to  her  prejudice.  She,  with  her 
high  endowments,  was  made  a  mere  puppet  in  their  hands ;  she, 
with  her  meek  spirit,  was  made  a  plea  for  their  reckless  outrages. 
She  was  at  the  mercy  of  their  ill-judgjnent  and  incapacity ;  and 
bore  the  imputation  of  their  guilt. 

The  several  rebellions  were  speedily  crushed.  Wyatt  lost  his 
head ;  and  Suffolk  was  condemned.  The  Duke  was  once  more  sent 
to  the  Tower ;  and  Queen  Mary  was  pressed  on  all  sides  to  consent 
to  the  execution  of  his  hapless  daughter  and  her  husband.  The 
fatal  fact  of  her  re-proclamation  by  her  father,  and  uncles,  was  ve- 
hemently urged.  Poinet,  bishop  of  Winchester,  affirms  that  those 
lords  of  the  council  who  had  been  most  instrumental  at  the  death 
of  Edward  VI.,  in  thrusting  royalty  upon  Lady  Jane,  were  now 
the  sorest  forcers  of  men,  yea  became  earnest  councillors  for  that 
innocent  lady's  death.  He  plainly  indicates  these  lords  to  be  the 
Earl  of  Pembroke  and  the  Marquis  of  Winchester, — no  othei  than 


LADY    JANE  GREY. 


277 


the  same  vile  trimmer  who  first  delivered  tlie  crown  to  Lady  Jane  ; 
tlien  virtually  accused  lier  of  purloining  tlie  crown  jewels ;  and 
lastly  endeavoured  to  crown  lier  witli  martyrdom. 

Mary  was  prevailed  upon  to  sign  the  death-warrant  of  her  kins- 
woman ;  and  the  decree  which  had  been  suspended,  was  put  into 
execution  against  Lady  Jane  and  Lord  Guilford  Dudley. 

Fuller,  in  his  "  Life  of  Lady  Jane  Grey,"  hints  an  awful  addi- 
tional point  in  this  tragedy.  He  says : — "  Some  report  her  to  have 
been  with  child  when  she  was  beheaded  (cruelty  to  cut  down  the 
tree  with  blossoms  on  it),  and  that  which  hath  saved  the  life  of 
many  women,  hastened  her  death  ;  but  God  only  knows  the  truth 
hereof." 

The  meek  victim,  when  the  order  was  brought  to  the  Tower, 
declared  that  she  was  by  no  means  unjDrepared  for  its  advent. 
She  had  for  some  time  expected  it ;  and  had  endeavoured  to  for- 
tify her  spirit  to  meet  her  fate  with  resignation.  She  had  had 
frequent  conferences  with  Dr.  Feckenham,  the  queen's  chaj^lain, 
and  had  always  steadily  defended  her  religious  opinions,  in  a  man- 
ner to  gain  his  friendly  regard,  even  while  regretting  that  he  could 
not  succeed  in  converting  her  from  them.  She  had  written  a  let- 
ter to  her  sister  in  Greek,  accompanied  by  a  copy  of  the  Bible  in 
the  same  language,  exhorting  her  to  maintain,  through  all  fortunes, 
a  similarly  steadfast  adherence  to  principle.  It  was  Dr.  Fecken- 
ham who  was  now  sent  to  Lady  Jane,  to  prepare  her  for  speedy 
death,  and  to  exert  every  means  in  his  power  to  change  her  faith. 
She  declined  discussion  on  the  present  occasion,  being  anxious  to 
be  spared  dispute  on  their  differing  creeds  ;  and  pleaded  that  her 
time  was  too  short  for  controversy.  The  confessor  hastened  to 
Queen  Mary  and  represented  that  it  could  be  scarcely  hoped  Lady 
Jane  would  die  a  Catholic,  if  she  were  hurried  to  the  block  with- 
out sufficient  time  for  conviction.    The  queen  granted  a  respite  of 


278 


LADY    JANE  GREY. 


three  days  ;  and  Dr.  Feckenliam  returned  to  tlie  Tower  with,  the 
tidings  of  delay.  Lady  Jane  smiled  mournfully  on  her  eager 
friend,  and  told  him  that  he  had  misconceived  her  meaning :  it  was 
not  that  she  wished  her  doom  deferred,  hut  that  she  was  desirous 
of  avoiding  religious  argument.  The  gentle  saint  added,  that  "  she 
was  prepared  to  receive  patiently  her  death  in  any  manner  it 
might  please  the  queen  to  appoint.  True  it  was,  her  flesh  shud- 
dered, as  was  natural  to  frail  mortahty ;  but  her  spirit  would 
spring  rejoicingly  into  the  eternal  light,  when  she  hoped  the  mercy 
of  God  would  receive  it."  The  record  of  this  devoutly  resigned 
speech  is  preserved  by  Feckenham ;  who,  though  he  failed  to 
turn  Lady  Jane  from  the  Protestant  faith,  felt  interest  for  her  youth 
and  virtue,  while  inspiring  her  with  gratitude  for  his  kindness  and 
friendship.  In  the  course  of  the  three  days  that  elapsed  between 
the  signing  of  the  death-warrant,  and  the  period  of  her  execution, 
Lady  Jane  learned  the  condemnation  of  her  father ;  who  during 
this  interval  was  brought  to  the  Tower.  His  victim  wrote  him  a 
letter,  which  contains  poignant  reproach  in  the  very  serenity  of  its 
submission.    This  is  a  portion  of  it : — 

"  Father. — Although  it  has  pleased  God  to  hasten  my  death 
by  you,  by  whom  my  life  should  rather  have  been  lengthened,  yet 
I  can  so  patiently  take  it,  that  I  yield  God  more  hearty  thanks  for 
shortening  my  woeful  days,  than  if  all  the  world  had  been  given 
into  my  possession,  with  life  lengthened  at  my  own  will :  and, 
albeit,  I  am  very  well  assured  of  your  sorrow,  both  in  bewailing 
your  own  woe,  and  especially,  as  I  am  informed,  my  woeful  state  ; 
yet,  my  dear  father,  herein  I  may  account  myself  blessed,  that, 
washing  my  hands  in  innocency,  my  guiltless  blood  may  cry  before 
the  Lord,  Mercy  to  the  innocent.  And  yet,  though  I  must  needs 
acknowledge  that,  being  constrained,  and,  as  you  know  well 
enough,  continually  assailed,  yet  in  taking  upon  me,  I  seemed  to 


LADY    JANE  GEEY. 


279 


consent,  and  therein  grievonsly  offended  against  the  queen  and  lier 
laws  :  yet  do  I  assuredly  trust  that  this  my  offence  towards  God  is 
so  much  the  less,  in  that  being  in  so  royal  a  state  as  I  was,  my 
enforced  honour  never  mingled  with  my  innocent  heart."  *  *  * 
"  And  thus,  good  father,  I  have  opened  unto  you  the  state  wherein 
I  presently  stand — my  death  at  hand, 

"  Although  perhaps  it  may  seem  woeful,  yet  there  is  nothing 
which  can  to  me  he  more  welcome,  than  from  this  vale  of  misery 
to  aspire  to  that  heavenly  throne  of  all  joy  and  pleasure  with 
Christ  my  Saviour,  in  whose  steadfast  faith  (if  it  may  be  lawful 
for  the  daughter  so  to  write  to  the  father)  the  Lord  that  hath 
hitherto  strengthened  you,  so  continue  to  keep  you,  that  at  the  last 
we  may  meet  in  heaven,  with  the  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost. 

"  I  am, 

"  Your  obedient  daughter  till  death, 

"  Jaiste  Dudley." 

During  her  imprisonment  Lady  Jane  composed  several  prayers, 
suggested  by  her  distressful  circumstances,  and  showing  with  what 
pious  sedateness  she  sustained  them ;  while  her  mind  was  so  calm 
and  unshaken  by  the  near  approach  of  death,  that  she  corrected 
these  manuscript  prayers  the  night  before  she  suffered. 

It  had  been  intended  that  Lady  Jane  and  Lord  Guilford  Dud- 
ley should  be  executed  on  the  same  scaffold  on  Tower  Hill ;  but 
the  council  dreading  the  impression  which  the  sight  of  this  unfor- 
tunate young  couple,  in  their  beauty,  innocence,  and  suffering, 
would  produce  upon  the  people,  gave  orders  that  Lady  Jane 
should  be  beheaded  within  the  verge  of  the  Tower. 

She  would  not  consent  to  take  leave  of  her  husband  on  the 
day  of  their  execution  ;  sending  him  word,  that  the  tenderness  of 
parting  might  unbend  their  minds  from  that  firmness  with  which  it 
behoved  them  to  meet  their  approaching  fate.    "  Our  separation,'' 


280  LADY    JANE  GREY. 

she  added,  "  will  be  but  for  a  moment ;  we  sliall  soon  rejoin  each 
other  in  a  scene  where  our  affections  will  be  for  ever  united,  and 
where  death,  disappointment,  and  misfortune,  can  no  longer  dis- 
turb our  felicity."  She  beheld  Lord  Guilford  led  to  execution 
without  discovering  any  sign  of  weakness;  but,  with  a  woman's 
true  sentiment — combining  deepest  feeling  with  outward  controul, 
and  promptmg  fond  recognition  in  the  midst  of  mutual  courage  for 
both  their  sates— she  gave  him  a  token  of  remembrance  from  the 
window,  as  he  passed  beneath.  She  even  met  his  headless  body 
with  calmness,  as  she  herself  went  to  execution ;  strengthened  by 
the  account  she  had  received  of  his  magnanimity  in  meeting  death. 
At  the  sight,  she  exclaimed,  "  Oh !  Guilford,  Guilford !  the  fate 
you  have  tasted,  and  which  I  shall  soon  taste,  is  not  so  bitter  as  to 
make  me  tremble ;  it  is  nothing  to  the  feast  that  you  and  I  shall 
partake  of  this  day  in  heaven  !  " 

As  he  conducted  her  to  the  scaffold,  the  Constable  of  the  Tower 
requested  her  to  bestow  upon  him  some  trifle  which  he  might  keep 
as  a  memorial  of  her.  She  gave  him  her  table-book,  in  which  she 
had  just  written  three  sentences ;  one  in  Greek,  another  in  Latin, 
and  a  third  in  English.  Their  purport  was,  that  although  human 
justice  was  against  her  husband's  body,  divine  mercy  would  be 
favourable  to  his  soul :  that  if  her  fault  deserved  punishment,  her 
youth  and  inexperience  might  plead  her  excuse  ;  and  that  God  and 
posterity,  she  trusted,  would  show  her  favour. 

Her  closing  speech,  addressed  to  those  who  stood  around  her  on 
the  scaffold,  was  marked  by  her  characteristic  meekness  and  com- 
posure. She  took  all  blame  upon  herself ;  and  made  no  complaint 
of  the  severity  used  towards  her.  She  said  that  her  fault  was  not 
so  much  in  assuming  the  crown,  as  in  not  having  I'efused  it  with 
sufficient  constancy:  that  she  willingly  received  death  as  atone- 
ment to  the  laws,  which  she  had  been  led  to  violate  from  filial 


LADY    JANE  GREY. 


281 


duty,  and  tlirough  ignorance :  that  she  deserved  this  punishment, 
for  having  allowed  herself  (though  reluctantly)  to  be  made  the 
instrument  of  the  ambition  of  others  ;  and  that  she  hoped  the 
story  of  her  life  might  at  least  be  useful  as  proving  that  innocence 
does  not  excuse  errors  which  tend  in  any  way  to  public  crimes. 
"  My  offence  against  the  Queen,"  she  said,  "  was  none  of  my  seek- 
ing, but  by  council  of  others.  I  knew  little  of  the  law,  and  nothing 
of  the  titles  of  the  crown : — from  all  guilty  intentions  I  do  wash 
my  hands  in  innoceucy  before  God  and  you  ! — Assist  me  with 
your  prayers !  "  Having  j)ronounced  these  words,  she  bade  her 
women  assist  to  bare  her  throat;  and  then  ejaculating  in  a  clear 
voice: — "  Lord  !  into  thy  hands  I  commend  my  spirit !  "  she  laid 
her  head  upon  the  block,  and  with  a  steady  and  serene  counte- 
nance, submitted  to  the  stroke  of  the  executioner. 

Lady  Jane  Grey  j)erished  in  the  early  flower  of  her  age,  with 
a  piety  and  fortitude  the  most  exemplary.  Her  reading  had  in- 
vigorated her  mind,  and  strengthened  her  moral  feeling.  It 
instilled  the  wisdom  of  seeking  from  intellectual  pleasures  a  re- 
source against  personal  hardships;  and  inspired  the  courage  to 
face  early  death  undismayed.  There  was  only  one  thing  which  it 
failed  to  give  her,^ — and  that  was  the  power  to  abide  by  a  resolution 
formed  on  the  conviction  of  simple  right.  In  a  girl  of  her  tender 
years,  it  is  perhaps  almost  too  much  to  expect  that  she  should  have 
continued  to  withstand  the  combined  dictates  and  entreaties  of  her 
assembled  family,  seconded  by  those  of  a  beloved  husband :  but 
Lady  J ane  could  be  firm  on  points  where  she  held  it  virtuous  to  be 
steadfast ;  and  she  should  have  been  consistently  determined,  in  a 
case  where  conscience  told  her  that  her  first  impulse  was  an  honest 
one.  Although  she  asserted  in  the  course  of  her  dying  declaration 
that  she  "  knew  nothing  of  the  titles  of  the  crown,"  it  is  evident, 
from  her  pleading  the  preferable  claims  of  her  cousins,  the  two 
princesses,  on  the  memorable  occcasion  at  Siou  House,  that  she 

36 


LADY    JANE  aRBY. 

knew  sufficiently  of  tlie  titular  degrees  in  royal  succession  to  be 
aware  tliat  slie  liad  not  so  valid  a  birtli-riglit  as  eitlier  Mary  or 
Elizabeth.  It  is  true  that  there  were  not  wanting  sojohistical  ob- 
jections against  their  claims,  and  various  attempted  impeachments 
of  their  legitimate  title  to  reign:  and  moreover,  her  cousin 
Edward's  testamentary  decree  in  her  favour  had  doubtless  much 
weio-ht.  But  still,  her  own  instinct  told  her  that  the  attempt  to 
raise  her  to  the  throne  was  wrong ;  and  she  should  have  main- 
tained the  refusal  to  participate  in  it,  which  her  pure  heart  and 
judgment  prompted  her  to  make. 

After  all— it  is  but  one  kind  of  admiring  tribute  to  this  gifted 
young  creature,  when  we  thus  point  out  the  single  approach  to 
blemish  in  the  otherwise  speckless  character  of  Lady  Jane  Grey. 
Her  name  will  always  be  dear  to  English  hearts ;— for  although 
her  fate  is  a  stain  in  English  annals,  her  womanly  gentleness  and 
modesty,  her  rare  excellence  in  learning,  her  holy  meekness  and 
firm  piety,  are  all  so  many  sources  of  legitimate  pride  to  her 
countrymen  and  countrywomen. 

Lady  Jane  Grey  forms  an  ideal  of  youth,  beauty,  worth  and  ac- 
complishment, that  gives  to  the  old,  when  they  think  of  her,  the 
sense  of  possessing  an  ever-living  daughter  in  immortal  bloom  of 
promise;  and  to  the  young,  a  feeling  of  affectionate  esteem,  as 
towards  an  honoured  and  beloved  sister,  of  whom  Death  itself  can- 
not deprive  them. 

Fuller,  in  his  "  Holy  State,"  epitomizes  Lady  Jane  Grey's  de- 
scription in  these  words : — "  She  had  the  innocency  of  childhood, 
the  beauty  of  youth,  the  solidity  of  middle,  the  gravity  of  old  age, 
and  all  at  eighteen  :  the  birth  of  a  princess,  the  learning  of  a  clerk, 
the  life  of  a  saint,  yet  the  death  of  a  malefactor,  for  her  parents' 
offences."  He,  in  his  own  original  manner  adds  : — "  Let  all  great 
ladies  who  bear  her  name,  imitate  her  virtues,  to  whom  I  wish  her 
inward  holiness,  but  far  more  outward  liappiness." 


POCAHOl^TAS 


The  lieart  of  every  woman  is  a  romance,  and  its  master-cliord  is 
Love.  Of  all  tne  passions,  it  is  that  wliicli  exercises  tlie  strongest 
controul  over  female  character ;  tlie  fruitful  parent  of  a  thousand 
virtues,  and  a  thousand  crimes,  which,  though  oft  ascribed  to  other 
sources,  have,  in  reality,  their  origin  from  it  alone.  Its  jDurity  and 
ennobling  strength  are  beautifully  exemplified  in  the  history  of 
the  Indian  Princess  Pocahontas,  in  whose  guileless  and  untutored 
heart  a  passion  for  one*  of  the  most  chivalrous  adventurers  of 
America's  early  history,  has  rendered  her  the  heroine  of  one  of 
the  most  simple  and  touching  stories  of  its  olden  time. 

The  maiden,  according  to  all  the  traditions  that  have  been  received 
of  her,  presented  a  perfect  model  of  Indian  beauty,  at  its  most  atr 
tractive  period,  when  the  young  girl  just  expanding  into  womanhood, 
combines  the  loveHest  attributes  of  both — wild  yet  bashful,  quick 
in  transition,  yet  gentle  and  affectionate.  Slender  and  stately  as  a 
young  palm-tree,  the  small  head,  proudly  carried,  with  a  wild  no- 
bility of  look,  characteristic  of  the  freedom  of  the  forest.  The 
features  pale  and  statuesque,  lighted  up  by  the  luminous  fawn-like 
eyes,  full  of  tremulous  light,  stealing  through  the  long  dark  lashes  ; 
every  movement  of  the  supple  form  and  unfettered  limbs  showing 
the  superiority  of  Nature  over  Art,  alike  graceful  in  action  or  re- 


POCAHONTAS. 

pose,  even  as  a  plume  wlien  motionless  or  waving  in  tlie  wind ;  the 
hands  and  feet  small  and  symmetrically  formed,  while  over  the  pic- 
turesque tunic  and  mantle,  bordered  with  swan's-down  and  ermine, 
as  denoting  the  virgin-daughter  of  an  Indian  king,  floated  the  long 
silken  tresses  of  bluest-black,  fancifully  wreathed  with  shells  and 
flowers,  the  arched  instep  and  rounded  arms  displaying  the  same 
gay  ornaments.  Such  was  Pocahontas  in  the  year  1606,  when 
during  the  autumnal  stillness  of  a  September  day,  along  the  grassy 
rampart  which  surrounded  the  great  house  of  Powhatan,  her  fa- 
ther, at  Werowocomoco,  the  trampling  march  of  two  or  three  hun 
dred  Indians  announced  the  approach  of  a  prisoner,  whose  capture 
being  considered  an  achievement  of  the  highest  importance,  was 
to  be  celebrated  with  suitable  solemnity  and  magnificence. 

This  captive  was  Captain  John  Smith,  a  soldier  of  fortune,  second 
in  authority  of  a  band  of  English  adventurers,  who,  a  few  months 
previously,  had  landed  on  the  shores  of  Chesapeake  Bay,  with  in- 
tent to  found  a  colony.  From  boyhood  he  had  been  a  soldier, 
serving  with  peculiar  distinction  in  the  armies  of  Germany  against 
the  Turks,  and  crowning  his  military  career  on  the  plains  of  Regall, 
in  Transylvania,  by  an  action  that  has  no  equal,  save  in  the  stirring 
pages  of  Froissart — he  having  there,  in  presence  of  both  armies  and 
a  number  of  Turkish  ladies,  victoriously  encountered  and  slain  in 
the  lists  three  successive  Turkish  champions,  whose  heads,  horses, 
and  armour,  were  yielded  to  him  as  their  conqueror.*  His  portrait 
at  the  age  of  thirty-seven,  gives  the  idea  of  one  who,  ten  or  twelve 
years  previously,  at  the  time  when  these  events  occurred,  must 
have  been  eminently  handsome,  especially  when,  as  a  gay  young 
cavalry  officer,  charging  at  the  head  of  his  men,  or  overthrowing 
his  adversaries  in  the  lists  before  the  eyes  of  assembled  thousands. 
Among  the  strange  turns  of  fortune  which  had  marked  his  event- 

*  See  account  at  the  end  of  this  article. 


POCAHONTAS. 


;285 


ful  life,  it  was  not  the  least  to  find  Mmself  a  prisoner  amongst  tlie 
Indians  in  tlie  wilds  of  North  America,  dragged  into  tlie  presence 
of  their  "Great  Emperor,"  Powhatan— a  wily  and  ferocious 
chief,  whom  his  people  obeyed  with  fear  and  adoration,  their 
greatest  spirits  trembling  at  his  frown,  and  who,  uniting  in  himself 
all  the  sterner  attributes  of  his  race,  was  accessible  only  to  the 
softer  emotions  through  the  agency  of  his  daughter— the  child  of 
his  old  age — the  good  and  beautiful  Pocahontas. 

Althoneh  she  must  have  heard  a  thousand  exaggerated  accounts 
of  the  exploits  of  the  renowned  warrior  from  the  land  of  the  pale 
faces,  during  so  many  months  that  he  had  struggled  against  the 
stratagems  of  her  father  and  his  followers  ;  yet  it  is  probable  that 
she  now  beheld  him  closely  for  the  first  time,  and  the  sight  could 
only  tend  to  mcrease  her  admii-ation,  since,  according  to  Indian 
ideas,  stoic  hardihood  under  the  taunts  of  an  enemy  is  the  quality 
of  all  othere  most  worthy  of  praise.  With  Captain  Smith  this  in- 
trepidity of  character  was  too  innate  to  yield  under  any  circum- 
stances ;  and  though  in  the  most  forlorn  condition  that  can  be  im- 
agined, bruised,  wounded,  covered  only  with  a  loose  robe  that  Ma- 
ocassater,  an  Indian  to  whom  he  had  formerly  been  kind,  had 
thrown  over  him ;  yet  in  boldness  of  carriage  he  surpassed  the 
proudest  of  his  adversaries ;  and  that  stern  contempt  of  death, 
learned  amidst  the  defiles  of  Hungary  and  the  plains  of  Germany, 
was  shown  in  its  fullest  force  amongst  the  savage  enemies  by  whom 
he  was  surrounded. 

His  entrance  was  greeted  with  a  great  shout  from  all  present ; 
the  tiger-like  roar  of  three  or  four  hundred  Indians,  exulting  and 
terrible,  shaking  to  its  centre  the  house  of  Werowocomoco,  but  fad- 
ing to  move  a  muscle  in  the  countenance  of  the  prisoner  thus  rudely 
ushered  into  the  presence  of  Powhatan,  surrounded  by  his  grim 
courtiers,  savagely  adorned  in  all  the  hideous  glory  of  their  war- 


286 


POCAHONTAS 


paint,  feathers,  and  wild-beast  skins  ;  in  addition  to  which,  some  of 
the  most  distinguished  Tbraves  had  small  live  snakes  suspended  from 
the  lobe  of  the  ear,  curling  their  glittering  folds  around  the  necks, 
and  sometimes  raising  theii-  heads  to  the  lips  of  the  wearers  ;  one 
and  all  of  these  savage  warriors  seeming  to  have  vied  with  each 
other  in  endeavourmg  to  render  themselves  frightful,  their  bronzed 
and  muscular  forms  in  every  variety  of  violent  action,  brandishing 
their  weapons,  their  large  black  eyes  all  glaring  at  him  as  at  a 
monster. 

"  Before  a  large  fire,  on  a  seat  like  a  bedstead,  sate  Powhatan, 
covered  with  a  great  robe  of  Earowcum  skins,  and  all  the  tails 
hanging  by :  a  tall,  and  powerfully-built  old  man— finely  propor- 
tioned, with  white  hair,  and  a  countenance  stern  and  ominous. 
On  his  right  hand  sate  Pocahontas,  on  his  left  her  younger  sister : 
along  each  side  of  the  house  two  rows  of  men,  behind  them  as 
many  women,  with  all  their  heads  and  shoulders  painted  red  ;  many 
of  their  heads  bedecked  with  the  white  down  of  birds,  but  every 
one  with  something  by  way  of  ornament— and  all  with  great 
chains  of  beads  about  their  necks.    Presently  the  Queen  of  Appa- 
matuk  is  appointed  to  bring  the  prisoner  water  to  wash  his 
hands— another  female  a  bunch  of  feathers  instead  of  a  napkin  to 
dry  them.    Then  being  abundantly  feasted  after  theii-  best  bar- 
barous manner,  a  long  consultation  is  held— after  which  two  ^reat 
stones,  or  Pawcorances,  are  brought  and  laid  at  the  feet  of  Pow- 
hatan," still  sitting  grimly  on  his  rude  throne  with  frowning  and 
gloomy  aspect.    These  stones  but  too  well  declare  the  fate  in- 
tended for  the  prisoner— for  they  are  the  stones  of  sacrifice;  and 
the  introduction  only  serves  to  make  the  assembled  mass  of  savage 
humanity  heave  and  struggle  more  fiercely  towards  the  completion 
of  the  rite. 

All  is  tumult  and  excitement.    Pocahontas  no  longer  sits  bv 


POCAHONTAS. 


287 


tlie  side  of  lier  father — slie  lias  tlirown  lierself  in  agony  on  tlie 
gromicl  before  liim — twining  her  beantiful  arms  around  his  knees, 
and  entreating  with  wild  supplications  and  many  tears  for  mercy  ! 
— mercy  on  the  prisoner  !  Every  endearing  word  that  on  former 
occasions  she  has  ever  used  with  success,  she  jDours  forth  now  in  a 
flood  of  tender  and  passionate  vehemence  that  j)ierces  every 
heart  but  that  of  Powhatan.  Unmoved  by  her  appeal,  he  makes 
a  sign — a  dreadful  rush  is  made  upon  the  prisoner,  every  hand 
striving  to  reach  him ;  and  as  many  as  can,  by  any  means,  lay 
hold  upon  him,  seize,  and  drag  him  to  the  fatal  stones,  forcing 
down  his  head  upon  one  of  them  in  order  to  beat  out  his  brains 
with  their  uplifted  war-clubs,  already  swinging  to  destroy  him, 
when,  with  a  wild,  resounding  shriek,  tearing  away  every  object 
that  would  impede  her  progress,  Pocahontas,  forcing  her  way 
among  them,  throws  herself  across  his  breast,  and  clasping  his  head 
between  her  arms,  lays  her  own  upon  it  in  breathless  exj)ectation 
of  the  event — silent,  devoted,  prepared  to  give  her  own  young, 
sweet  life  ere  his  shall  be  sacrrflced.  In  vain  the  furious  clamour 
of  the  fanatic  and  vindictive  priests — or  boastful  braves  disappoint- 
ed of  their  prey.  As  well  might  they  attempt  to  remove  the  eagle 
when  defending  her  young,  as  Pocahontas  from  him  she  has  de- 
termined to  shield.  Hoarse  murmurs  and  threats  are  heard  on 
every  side,  quelled  but  by  the  word  of  Powhatan ;  whose  mood, 
changing  with  the  scene,  has  yielded  to  the  love  and  grief  of  Poca- 
hontas what  a  world'  in  arms  would  not  have  wrung  from  him. 
The  old  history  quaintly  remarks :  "  Whereat,  the  Emperour 
w^as  contented  he  should  hve  to  make  him  hatchets,  and  her  bells, 
beads,  and  copper." 

In  order,  however,  not  wholly  to  defraud  the  priests  and 
chief  warriors  of  the  entertainment  they  had  anticipated  in  tor- 
turing the  victim,  he  was  carried  off  to  a  great  house  in  the  woods. 


288 


POCAHONTAS. 


and  subjected  to  every  experiment  tlieir  art  could  devise  in  order 
to  intimidate  Lim,  hut  in  vain.  For  tliougli  "  the  king  disguised 
himself  in  the  most  fearfuUest  manner  he  could,  with  two  hundred 
more,  so  black  as  to  be  more  like  devils  than  men,"  those  iron 
nerves,  tried  for  so  many  years  in  storm,  siege,  and  battle,  were 
beyond  the  pale  of  Indian  incantation,  and  the  next  morning  he 
was  permitted  to  return  to  the  fort  and  his  companions  at  James- 
town. There,  after  every  four  or  five  days,  came  the  gentle  guar- 
dian-angel Pocahontas  and  her  wild  train,  bearing  provisions  to  the 
starving  colonists  ;  part  always  being  as  presents  from  the  king  or 
herself,  the  rest  to  be  repaid  as  Captain  Smith  should  dictate.  His 
power  over  the  Indians  was  now  boundless,  we  are  told,  "  so  had 
he  inchanted  these  poor  soules,  being  their  prisoner ;  and  now 
Caj)taiu  Newport,  whom  he  called  his  father,  arriving  near  as 
directly  as  he  foretold,  they  esteemed  him  as  an  oracle,  and  had 
them  at  that  submission  he  might  command  them  at  what  he  listed. 
That  God  who  had  created  all  things,  they  knew  he  adored  for  his 
God :  and  now  they  would  also  talk  of  the  God  of  Captain  Smith !  " 

This  wonderful  man,  amongst  his  numerous  endowments,  pos- 
sessed in  a  remarkable  degree  the  power  of  winning  to  himself  the 
hearts  and  minds  of  others.  During  the  campaigns  in  which  he 
had  been  engaged  in  the  year  preceding  his  arrival  in  Virginia,  he 
had  attracted  the  admiration  and  regard  of  a  fair  Turkish  princess, 
and  also  of  other  noble  ladies,  whose  generous  intervention  in  his 
cause  fall  like  pleasant  gleams  over  his  varied  and  torrent-like 
career,  where  no  day  was  like  its  predecessor,  but  each  teeming 
with  strange  and  startling  vicissitude.  Soldier,  captive,  fugitive, 
but  all  in  honour. 

Nobly  winning,  bravely  daring, 
Ladies  glove  his  bright  helm  wearing — 
Through  paths  of  death. 

Possessed  of  powers  which  thus  enabled  him  to  fascinate  the 


POCAHONTAS. 


289 


higli-born  and  beautiful  ladies  of  Europe,  it  excites  little  marvel 
that  to  the  eyes  of  the  young  and  inexperienced  Pocahontas  Jie 
should  have  seemed  a  superior  being.  Bred  in  the  seclusion  of  the 
forest,  accustomed  only  to  such  nurture  as  its  primitive  and  super- 
stitious occupants  are  wont  to  bestow  upon  their  offspring — no 
companions  or  objects  of  admiration  save  the  wild  maidens  of  her 
tribe,  and  the  savage  feats  of  its  young  braves ;  in  all  things  a  simple 
child  of  nature,  unskilled  in  the  arts  of  her  sex;  a  heart  like  that 
of  Pocahontas,  so  noble,  ardent,  and  affectionate,  must  have  turned 
as  naturally  to  the  commanding  and  chivalrous  soldier  as  the  lowly 
marigold  to  the  sun — and  as  purely — ^her  whole  course  of  conduct 
towards  him  being  an  nndeviating  flow  of  spontaneous  child-like 
worshij),  happiest  when  loading  him  with  benefits,  and  neither 
desiring  nor  expecting  a  return.  There  are  few  who,  looking  back 
on  their  own  childhood  or  youth,  cannot  remember  instances  as 
pure  and  passionate — a  sort  of  yearning  idolatry  towards  some 
object  that  to  the  rest  of  the  world  offered  no  more  interest  than 
a  stick  or  a  stone,  but  who,  to  the  childish  worshipper,  appeared  the 
incarnation  of  all  that  was  most  perfect ;  and  though  perhaps  the 
impression  might  fade  in  after  life,  yet  no  length  of  years  could 
remove  the  memory  of  the  intensity  with  which  it  had  once  been 
cherished. 

But  though  motives  more  tender  than  those  of  common  human- 
ity may  be  supposed  to  have  influenced  all  these  gentle  bene- 
factresses ;  yet,  on  the  part  of  Captain  Smith,  the  measured  terms  of 
high  and  courteous  respect  in  which  the  generous  instances  of  their 
bounty  are  somewhat  formally  enumerated,  forbid  the  idea  that  he 
entertained  for  themselves  a  warmer  sentiment  than,  gratitude ; — 
glory  and  ambition  seeming  to  have  been  his  only  idols: — for, 
though  apparently  every  way  fitted  to  inspire  attachment ,'  it  ap- 
pears to  have  been  either  his  fault  or  his  virtue  never  to  have 
37 


290  POCAHONTAS.. 

reciprocated  it.  Sucli,  it  must  be  confessed,  invariably  inspire  tlie 
deepest  and  most  lasting  attachments;  possibly  that  under  the 
hard  rock  of  such  a  character  lie  some  few  grains  of  genuine  gold, 
which  appearing  from  time  to  time,  are  at  once  a  reward  and 
excuse  for  the  ill-starred  votary— who  devotes  heart  and  soul  to 
the  task  of  worshipping  them. 

Like  a  little  flower  growing  under  the  shadow  of  such  a  rock  was 
the  young  Indian  maiden — ^her  image  flits  through  the  heart  like 
that  of  some  inhabitant  of  earth  ere  sin  was  not— when  woman, 
fresh  from  the  hands  of  her  creator,  could  love  all  that  was 
worthy,  good,  and  noble,  nor  blend  with  such  devotion  one  tint  of 
that  strange  mingling  of  many  thoughts,  sensations,  feelings,  pas- 
sions, which  men,  women,  aye  and  children  also,  feel  now,  and  call 
it  love.    In  reading  the  history  of  Captain  Smith,  it  is  impossible 
not  to  be  struck  by  the  resistless  energy  of  his  character ;  in  all 
lands,  and  with  all  men,  he  occupies  the  position  which  it  is  the 
proud  privilege  of  a  master-mind  to  attain.    Amongst  the  com- 
panions of  his  maritime  adventures  he  was  at  once  looked  up  to  as 
their  leader;  prompt  to  remedy  every  deficiency — as  skilful  in 
conception  as  fearless  in  execution,  nature  seemed  to  have  formed 
him  for  a  great  workman,  but  to  have  denied  him  the  proper  tools 
— all  his  plans  being  crossed,  cii-cumvented  or  betrayed  by  his  un- 
happily-assorted associates.    After  his  return  from  his  imprison- 
ment among  Powhatan's  Indians,  for  a  time  all  went  well;  the 
hungry  were  filled,  the  discontented  set  to  work,  and  industry  and 
hope  gave  peaceful  days  and  nights  to  the  colony.    Trade,  too, 
went  on  briskly,  and  a  constant  interchange  of  presents  and  good 
offices  begot  so  friendly  a  feeling  in  the  breast  of  the  stern  old 
"  Emperour  "  Powhatan,  that  he  resolved  to  give  a  grand  feast  by 
way  of  giving  expression  to  it.    Accordingly,  he  sent  forth  between 
two  and  three  hundred  savages  to  conduct  Captain  Smith,  his 


POCAHONTAS. 


291 


friend  Captain  Newport,  and  tlie  rest  of  their  company,  to 
Werowocomoco,  where,  surronnded  by  a  body-guard  of  forty  or 
fifty  of  the  tallest men  his  country  afforded,  he  received  them  in 
great  state.  The  ceremonial  of  reception  being  for  "  the  guests 
to  sit  down  on  a  mat  opposite  their  host,  when  all  present  with  a 
tuneable  voice  of  shouting  bid  them  welcome.  After  this,  several 
of  their  chief  men  made  them  grand  orations,  testifying  their  love 
with  such  vehemency  and  such  great  passions,  that  they  sweat  till 
they  drop,  and  are  so  out  of  breath  they  cannot  speak ;  that  a  man 
would  take  them  to  be  exceeding  angry,  or  stark  mad." 

In  this  fashion,  therefore,  did  Powhatan  receive  his  honoured 
guests,  "  straining  himself  to  the  utmost  of  his  greatness  to  enter- 
tain them  with  great  shouts  of  joy,  orations  of  protestations,  and 
with  the  most  j)lenty  of  victuals  he  could  provide  to  feast  them. 
Sitting  upon  his  bed  of  mats,  his  pillow  of  leather  embroidered 
after  their  rude  manner  with  pearl  and  white  beads,  his  attire  a 
fair  robe  of  skins  as  large  as  an  Irish  mantle,  at  his  head  and  feet 
a  handsome  young  woman ;  on  each  side  his  house  sat  twenty  of 
his  wives,  their  heads  and  shoulders  painted  red,  with  a  great  chain 
of  white  beads  about  each  of  theii'  necks.  Before  those  sat  his 
chiefest  men  in  like  order  in  his  arbour-like  house,  and  more  than 
forty  platters  of  fine  bread  stood  as  a  guard  in  two  files  on  each 
side  the  door.  Four  or  five  hundred  people  made  a  guard  behind 
them  for  our  passage,  and  proclamation  was  made  none  upon  pain 
of  death  to  presume  to  do  us  any  wrong  or  discourtesy.  With 
many  pretty  discourses  this  great  king  and  our  captain  spent  the 
time.  In  feasting,  feats,  dancing,  singing,  and  trading,  we  spent 
three  or  four  days,  wherein  Powhatan  carried  himself  so  proudly, 
yet  discreetly  in  his  savage  manner,  as  made  us  all  admire  his 

*  Captain  Smith  describes  a  Sasquehanock  Indian,  the  calf  of  whose  leg  was  three 
quarters  of  a  yard  in  circumference,  and  aU  the  rest  of  his  limbs  in  proportion. 


4 


292 


P  0  C  A  H  0  N  T.  A  S. 


natural  gifts.  Scorning  to  trade  as  liis  subjects  did,  lie  Lespake 
Captain  Newport  in  this  manner : — ■'  Captain  JSTewport,  it  is  not 
agreeable  to  my  greatness  in  tMs  j)eddling  manner  to  trade  for 
trifles  ;  and  I  esteem  you  also  a  great  werowance  (leader),  there- 
fore lay  me  down  all  your  commodities  together ;  what  I  like  I 
will  take,  and  in  recompence  give  you  what  I  think  fitting  their 
value.'  Captain  Smith  being  our  interpreter,  regarding  Newport 
as  his  father,  knowing  best  the  disposition  of  Powhatan,  told  us 
his  intent  was  only  to  cheat  us ;  yet  Captain.  Newport  let  Powhatan 
have  his  desire,  who  therefore  valued  his  corn  at  such  a  rate  that 
we  had  not  four  bushels  for  that  we  expected  twenty  hogsheads. 
At  this  Captain  Smith  glanced  in  the  eyes  of  Powhatan  many 
trifles,  who  fixed  his  on  some  blue  beads ;  the  more  he  desired 
them,  the  more  the  captain  seemed  to  affect  them,  as  being 
composed  of  a  most  rare  substance  of  the  colour  of  the  skies,  and 
not  to  be  worn  but  by  the  greatest  kings  of  the  world.  This  made 
him  half  mad  to  be  the  owner  of  such  strange  jewels ;  so  that  ere  we 
parted,  for  a  pound  or  two  of  blue  beads  he  brought  over  the  king 
for  two  or  three  hundred  bushels  of  corn,  yet  jDarted  good  friends. 
By  this  means  blue  beads  grew  into  such  estimation,  that  none 
durst  wear  any  but  their  great  kings,  their  wives  and  children." 

Notwithstanding  all  this  feasting  and  pleasing  show  of  amity, 
there  ran  a  deep  under-current  of  mistrust  and  treachery,  resulting 
at  last  in  the  discovery  of  a  plot  concerted  by  Powhatan,  to  murder 
all  the  whites.  The  subtle  old  chief,  in  order  to  mollify  Captain  Smith, 
sent  his  "  dearest  daughter,  Pocahontas  "  to  him  with  protestations 
of  humility,  rich  presents,  and  assurances  of  "  love  for  ever."  As 
the  Captain  did  not  wish  to  proceed  to  extremities,  he  feigned  to 
feel  satisfied,  and  having  given  up  to  Pocahontas  some  prisoners 
who  had  revealed  the  plot,  he  professed  to  have  saved  their  lives 
solely  on  her  account,  and  sent  them  away  rejoicing. 


POCAHONTAS. 


293 


It  is  Avorthy  of  remark  tliat  tlie  name  of  Pocaliontas  is  seldom 
mentioned  by  any  of  tlie  various  early  writers  of  tlie  history  of 
Virginia,  without  some  prefix  denoting  her  angelic  disposition — 
jewel,  nonpareil,  dearest  daughter,  and  others — ^lier  presence  being 
always  signalized  by  some  generous  or  kindly  action.  Between 
the  rude  Indian  tribes  and  the  scarcely  more  polished  colonists,  she 
comes  and  goes  like  a  carrier  dove,  waving  her  white  wings  unsul- 
lied by  the  contaminations  to  which  she  is  exposed.  'No  taint  of 
dishonour  or  aught  unbeseeming  maiden  modesty  ever  attaches 
itself  to  the  name  of  Pocahontas.  Even  in  the  strange  and  frantic 
masque  \\^hich  it  was  the  custom  of  her  people  to  give  on  occasions 
of  grand  welcome,  she  is  not  described  as  one  of  its  participants, 
but  only  as  the  bearer  of  assurances  that  no  harm  is  intended  ;  for 
when  the  Captain  Governor,  thinking  from  the  horrible  noise  of 
shrieking,  and  the  violence  of  the  proceedings  generally,  that  Pow- 
hatan had  evil  designs  upon  him,  we  are  told  "  Presently  came 
Pocahontas  willing  him  to  kill  her  if  any  hurt  were  intended." 
The  wild  revel  then  proceeded,  than  which  nothing  more  singular 
or  truly  savage  can  well  be  imagined.  That  one  so  good  and  gen- 
tle as  Pocahontas  should  have  sprung  from  such  weird  ancestry, 
verifies  the  saying  of  Shakespeare: 

"  The  strawberry  grows  underneath  the  nettle ; 
And  wholesome  berries  thrive  and  ripen  best 
JSTeighbour'd  by  fruits  of  baser  quality." 

Henry  V.,  Act  1.,  Scene  I. 

As  this  masque  is  a  wonderful  thing  in  its  way,  and  was  douljt  " 
less  often  performed  among  the  Indians,  we  give  it  in  the  words  of 
Captain  Smith  :  "  In  a  fayre  plain  field,  about  a  fire,  presently  were 
we  presented  with  this  anticke.  Thirty  young  women  came  out 
of  the  woodes  only  covered  behind  and  before,  with  a  few  green 
leaves,  their  bodies  all  painted,  some  of  one  colour  some  of  anoth- 


294 


POCAHONTAS. 


er,  but  all  differing ;  their  leader  had  afayre  payre  of  buck's  liorns 
on  her  head,  and  an  otter's  skin  at  her  girdle  and  another  at  her 
arme,  a  quiver  of  arrowes  at  her  backe,  a  bow  and  arrowes  in  her 
hand ;  the  next  had  in  her  hand  a  sword,  another  a  club,  another 
a  jDot-stick ;  all  horned  alike  ;  the  rest  every  one  with  their  several 
devises.  These  fiends  with  most  hellish  shoutes  and  cryes,  rushing 
from  among  the  trees  cast  themselves  in  a  ring  aboute  the  fire, 
singing  and  dancing  with  most  excellent  ill  variety ;  oft  falling 
into  their  infernall  passions,  and  solemnly  again  to  sing  and  daunce : 
having  spent  near  an  hour  in  this  mascarado,  as  they  entred,  in 
like  manner  they  departed.  Having  re-accommodated  themselves 
they  solemnly  invited  him  to  their  lodgings,  where  he  was  no  sooner 
within  the  house,  but  all  these  nymphs  more  tormented  him  than 
ever,  with  crowding,  ]3ressing,  and  hanging  about  him, most  tediously 
crying,  '  Love  you  not  me  ? '  '  Love  you  not  me  ? '  This  salutation 
ended,  the  feast  was  set,  consisting  of  all  the  savage  dainties  they 
could  devise ;  some  attending,  others  singing  and  dancing  about 
them,  which  mirth  being  ended,  with  fire-brands  instead  of  torches, 
they  conducted  him  to  his  lodging." 

It  is  worthy  of  remark  that  Pocahontas  is  not  mentioned  as 
dancing  amongst  these  females,  although,  doubtless,  according  to 
Indian  custom,  she  might  have  done  so  without  blame.  It  may  be 
presumed  she  would  be  more  likely  to  sing  some  simple  ditty  like 
the  following,  the  Indian  line  of  the  chorus  being  explained  by  the 
one  which  follows  it : 

SONG  OF  POCAHONTAS. 

I. 

Come  to  the  forest,  warrior  fair ; 
For  thee  the  feast  my  maids  prepare 
Beneath  the  old  oak  tree  : 
Thy  foreign  name  I  cannot  speak — 


POCAHONTAS. 


295 


13ut  through  all  Avords  I  fondly  seek 
The  sweetest  one  for  thee.    .    '  . 

So-an-ge-ta-ha,  Sowain  ne  me  shin. 

Strong-hearted  !  pity  me  ! 

II. 

Oh  come !  'tis  the  sweet  Moon  of  Leaves,* 

The  owaissa  f  builds  beneath  the  eaves 

Or  sings  upon  the  bough. 

Son  of  the  land  where  freedom  dwells, 

Of  happy  homes,  and  Sabbath  bells, 

A  princess  calls  !  come,  Thou  ! 

So-an-ge-ta-ha,  Sowain  ne  me  shin. 

Strong-hearted  !  pity  nie  ! 

III. 

Hast  thou  in  thy  dear  land  a  mother  ? 
A  sister  dear* — a  friend — or  brother 
More  dear  than  life  to  thee  ? 
Bring  all  thy  griefs — I'll  share  thy  sorrow, 
Till  thou  shalt  mother — sister — borrow — 
Friend — brother — all — from  me. 

So-an-ge-ta-ha,  Sowain  n6  me  shin. 

Strong-hearted  !  pity  me  ! 

Tlie  innate  dignity  wliicli  assuredly  was  one  of  tlie  cliaracter- 
istics  of  Pocahontas,  seems  worthily  derived  from  Powhatan,  her 
father,  vfho  never  seemed  to  forget  he  was  a  king.  On  being  told 
that  Captain  Newport  had  brought  out  some  presents  for  him  from 
England,  as  a  crown,  robe,  and  other  coronation  baubles,  offering 
at  the  same  time  to  help  him  to  take  revenge  on  a  neighbouring 
tribe  who  had  done  him  some  grievous  wrong;  the  proud  old 
Indian,  with  a  voice  that  seemed  to  come  out  of  a  vault,  thus  re- 
plied :  "  If  your  king  have  sent  me  presents,  I  also  am  a  king,  and 
this  is  my  land :  eight  days  I  will  stay  to  receive  them.  Your 
father  is  to  come  to  me,  not  I  to  him,  nor  yet  to  your  fort ;  neither 


*  May. 


t  Blnc-bird. 


296  POCAHONTAS. 

will  I  bite  at  such  a  bait.  As  for  the  Monacans,  I  can  revenge  my 
own  injuries;  and  as  for  Atquanachuck,  where  you  say  your 
brother  was  slain,  it  is  a  contrary  way  from  those  parts  you  sup- 
pose it ;  but  for  any  salt  water  beyond  the  mountains,  the  relations 
you  have  had  from  my  people  are  false  ;  "  (here  he  began  to  draw 
plots  on  the  ground  of  all  those  regions.) 

On  the  day  appointed  to  crown  Powhatan,  the  presents  were 
set  before  him,  his  basin  and  ewer,  bed,  and  furniture,  set  up ;  his 
scarlet  cloak  and  apparel  with  much  ado  being  put  on  him,  after 
being  persuaded  by  Namontack  that  they  would  not  hurt  him,  but 
"  a  foule  trouble  there  was  to  make  him  kneel  to  receive  his  crown, 
he  neither  knowing  the  majesty  nor  meaning  of  a  crown,  nor  bend- 
ing of  the  knee,  endured  so  many  persuasions,  examples,  and 
instructions,  as  tired  them  all ;  at  last,  by  leaning  hard  upon  his 
shoulders,  he  a  little  stooped,  and  three  having  the  crown  in  their 
hands,  put  it  on  his  head,  when  by  the  warning  of  a  pistoU,  the 
boats  were  prepared  with  such  a  volley  of  shot,  that  the  king 
started  up  in  a  horrible  feare  till  he  saw  that  all  was  well ;  then  re- 
membering himself  to  congratulate  their  kindness,  he  gave  his  old 
shoes  and  mantle  to  Captain  Newport." 

These  presents,  Avhich  had  been  bestowed  much  against  the  ad- 
vice of  Captain  Smith,  who  well  knew  the  effect  they  would  produce 
on  the  uncultivated  mind  of  a  savage,  immediately  began  to.  show 
what  results  might  be  expected.  Powhatan  became  inflated  to  an 
extrordinary  degree.  The  idea  that  the  King  of  England  should 
not  only  acknowledge  him  as  a  brother  sovereign,  but  also  send 
him  the  insignia  of  royalty,  was  an  event  so  stupendous  that  his 
self-importance  knew  no  bounds,  and  he  determined  as  the  first  ex- 
ercise of  his  royal  authority  to  rid  himself  of  the  colonists.  Ac- 
cordingly, he  began  to  plot  more  diligently  than  ever,  and  it  was 
only  by  the  intervention  of  his  daughter  that  his  designs  were  frus- 


POCAHONTAS. 


297 


trated.  "  For  Pocaliontas,  Ms  dearest  jewel  and  daughter,  in  that 
dark  niglit  came  tlirougli  the  irksome  woods,  and  told  our  captaine 
'  great  cheer  should  be  sent  him  by  and  bye ;  but  Powhatan 
and  all  the  po^^-er  he  could  make  would  come  after  and  kill  us  all, 
if  they  that  brought  it  could  not  kill  us  with  our  owne  weapons 
when  we  were  at  supper.  Therefore,  if  we  would  live,  she  wished 
us  presently  to  begone.'  Such  things  as  she  delighted  in,  he  would 
have  given  her,  but  with  the  tears  running  down  her  cheekes,  she 
said  she  durst  not  seem  to  have  any,  for  if  Powhatan  should  know  it, 
she  were  hui  dead,  and  so  she  ranne  away  by  herself  as  she  came." 

Fore-warned,  fore-armed — they  are  safe  " — must  have  been  the 
thought  of  the  courageous  and  noble-hearted  Pocahontas  on  her  re- 
turn through  the  dark  forest  at  midnight,  when  aware  at  a  distance 
of  the  approach  of  the  bearers  of  the  treacherous  feast,  she  would 
glide  stealthily  behind  the  trees  till  they  had  passed ;  congratulat- 
ing herself  the  while  that  her  errand  would  not  j)rove  fruitless. 
Nor  less,  doubtless,  the  satisfaction  with  which  Captain  Smith  and 
his  hungry  companions  would  devour  the  good  things  sent  them  with 
so  evil  a  purpose,  when  fully  prepared  to  mete  out  a  just  reward  to 
the  donor.  Accordingly,  "  within  less  than  an  hour  after  the  de- 
parture of  Pocahontas,  came  eight  or  ten  lusty  fellows  with  great 
platters  of  venison  and  other  victual;  very  importunate  to  have 
us  put  out  our  matches,  whose  smoke  they  pretended  made  them 
sick,  and  sit  downe  to  our  victuall ;  but  the  Captaine  made  them 
taste  every  dish,  and  sent  them  back  to  tell  Powhatan  he  knew  his 
design,  bidding  him  to  make  haste,  he  was  ready  for  him." 

The  sweetness  of  danger  seems  to  have  been  keenly  appreciated 
by  these  hardy  colonists,  every  day  of  their  lives  abounding  in  facts 
whose  narration  given  by  themselves  in  the  fewest  words  as  mere 
'tems  in  a  business  account,  yet  sufficiently  shows  the  dangers  and 
hazards  they  perpetually  had  to  encounter. 

38 


298  POCAHONTAS.. 

But  witli  such  a  governor  as  Captain  Smith,  the  veriest  laggard 
must  have  grown  alert— the  coward  brave,  if  only  from  the  force 
of  example.  The  old  spirit  of  "  Olympagh"  and  "Kegall"  seems 
to  have  been  continually  at  work  within  him,  and  Pocahontas,  with 
all  the  ardour  of  her  Indian  blood,  would  have  to  listen  to  the  re- 
cital of  the  following  adventure  between  himself  and  her  uncle 
Opechancanough,  a  few  days  after  the  timely  warning  she  had 
given  him  of  her  father's  plot  against  his  life. 

Captain  Smith,  with  fifteen  of  his  companions,  having  arrived 
at  the  house  of  Opechancanough,  King  of  Pamaunkee^  for  the  pur- 
pose of  buying  corn,  was  informed  by  one  of  their  number  that 
the  house  was  surrounded  by  at  least  seven  hundred  Indians. 
The  men  were  for  the  most  part  struck  with  terror,  but  their  cap- 
tain, after  such  threats  and  entreaties  as  he  thought  most  likely  to 
restore  their  courage,  addressed  Opechancanough  as  follows: — 
"  I  see,  Opechancanough,  your  plot  to  murder  me,  but  I  fear  it 
not.    As  yet,  our  men  have  done  no  harm  on  either  side.  Take, 
therefore,  your  arms ;  you  see  mine ;  my  body  shall  be  as  naked 
as  yours.    The  isle  in  the  river  is  a  fit  place  if  you  be  contented, 
and  the  conqueror  of  us  two,  shall  be  lord  and  master  over  all  our 
men.    If  you  have  not  enough,  fetch  more,  and  bring  what  num- 
ber you  will,  so  every  one  bring  a  basket  of  corn,  against  which  I 
will  stake  the  value  in  copper ;  you  see  I  have  but  fifteen,  and  our 
game  shall  be,  the  conqueror  take  all."  The  king,  well  guarded  by 
forty  or  fifty  of  his  chief  men,  endeavoured  to  allay  all  suspicion  of 
unkindness  ;  but  at  the  same  time  endeavouring  to  draw  him  out 
of  the  door  Avhere  the  l^ait  was  guarded  by  at  least  two  hundred 
men,  besides  thirty  lying  under  a  great  tree  that  lay  athwart  like 
a  barricade,  with  their  arrows  all  notched,  ready  to  shoot.  This 
sight  made  the  men  more  cowardly  than  ever,  which,  together 
with  the  audacity  of  the  Indians,  threw  the  captain  into  such  a 


P  0  C  A  H  0  N  T  A  S 


299 


rage,  tliat  leaping  upon  Opechancanougli  in  tlie  midst  of  Ms  guards, 
he  seized  Lim  "by  tlie  long  scali3-lock,  and  pointing  his  pistol  to  his 
breast  led  him  along  half  dead  with  fear,  trembling  like  an  aspen. 
Having  been  made  to  deliver  up  his  vambrace,  bow,  and  arrows, 
the  multitude  were  easily  induced  to  lay  down  their  arms,  while 
the  captain,  still  holding  the  trembling  savage  by  the  hair,  made 
them  an  oration,  in  which,  by  judiciously  intermingling  threats 
with  kindness,  he  obtained,  for  the  time,  his  utmost  wishes. 

The  almost  superhuman  bravery  exhibited  on  this  as  on  all 
other  occasions,  joined  to  a  quick  wit,  and  infinite  ingenuity  in 
turning  their  superstitious  fears  to  his  own  advantage,  gave  him 
from  this  time  so  much  authority  over  them,  that  the  w^hole  coun- 
try became  as  free  to  the  English  as  to  themselves.  I^evertheless, 
Powhatan's  hatred  was  inextinguishable,  and  a  few  days  after- 
wards would  have  shown  itself  by  murdering  Richard  Wyfiin,  a 
friend  of  the  captain's,  who  had  called  at  the  house  of  Powhatan, 
had  it  not  been  for  Pocahontas,  who  hid  him  for  a  time,  sending 
those  who  pursued  him  in  an  opposite  direction :  by  her  efforts, 
extraordinary  bribes,  and  much  trouble,  in  three  days'  travel  he  at 
length  rejoined  the  captain. 

In  1609  Captain  Smith  resolved  to  resign  the  thankless  and 
laborious  office  he  had  long  filled  with  so  much  honour.  In  addi- 
tion to  the  treachery  of  the  Indians,  he  had  nothing  but  ingrati- 
tude and  circumvention  from  those  with  whom  he  was  associated ; 
and  meeting  also  at  this  time  with  a  dreadful  accident  from  the 
explosion  of  a  bag  of  gunpowder,  w^hen  in  an  open  boat  on  the 
river,  he  resolved  to  return  to  England.  The  absence  of  the  shej)- 
herd  was  soon  taken  advantage  of  by  the  wolf,  for  Powhatan  took 
an  opportunity  to  perpetrate  a  dreadful  massacre  on  a  party  of 
thirty-two,  who,  without  due  precautions,  were  bartering  with  him 
for  corn.    Thirty  were  slain,  one  escaped,  and  a  young  boy  of 


300  POCAHONTAS. 

good  descent,  named  Henry  Spillman,  was  rescued  by  Pocahontas, 
throuffli  whose  intercession  lie  was  received  amongst  the  Pata 
womekes,  where  residing  many  yeai'S,  he  became  a  proficient  in 
their  language,  and  did  good  service  many  times  between  them  and 
his  own  countrymen. 

Pocahontas  also  sought  refuge  with  the  same  friendly  nation, 
being  heard  of  no  more  at  Jamestown  after  the  departure  of  Captain 
Smith  until  1611,  when  Captain  Argall,  whose  ship  was  then  lying 
in  the  River  Potomac,  having  in  London  frequently  heard  his  friend 
Captain  Smith  eulogize  Pocahontas  as  the  "  nonpareil  of  Virginia," 
conceived  the  idea  of  making  her  his  prisoner,  in  order  to  induce 
Powhatan  to  more  favourable  negotiations  with  him.    Having  had 
an  interview  with  Japawzaws,  an  old  Indian,  who  had  formerly 
been  a  friend  of  Captam  Smith,  he  entered  into  a  treaty  with  him 
to  decoy  Pocahontas  aboard  under  pretence  of  seeing  the  ship, 
solemnly  assuring  him  that  no  further  harm  than  a  short  imprison- 
ment was  intended  her.    Japawzaws  listened  as  though  he  heard 
not,  until  the  ravishing  gleam  of  a  copper-kettle  displayed  before 
him  as  the  reward,  completely  overpowered  every  scruple,  and  he 
at  once  repaired  to  Pocahontas,  taking  care,  however,  to  carry  his 
wife  along  with  him,  thinking  that  she  might  prove  a  valuable 
aid ;  nor  was  he  mistaken,  for  Pocahontas,  who  had  seen  many 
ships,  had  no  curiosity  to  visit  that  of  Captain  Argall,  and  would 
have  totally  negatived  the  proposals  of  Japawzaws,  but  for  the 
tears  of  his  wife,  who  pretending  never  to  have  seen  the  interior 
of  one,  was  so  importunate  with  her  husband  to  allow  her  to  go 
aboard,  that  with  much  pretended  violence  he  threatened  to  beat 
her,  whereat  she  wept  still  more,  insomuch  that  pretending  to 
relent,  he  told  her  that  if  Pocahontas  would  accompany  her  he  was 
content.    It  was  not  in  the  nature  of  Pocahontas  to  withstand 
tears  and  supplications,  she  therefore  accompanied  her  betrayers  to 


POCAHONTAS. 


301 


the  vessel,  where  a  fine  entertainment  was  served  to  them  in  the 
cabin,  and  every  attention  and  kindness  shown  to  them  by  Captain 
Argall,  who,  during  the  repast,  had  to  undergo  repeated  pressures 
on  his  toes  from  the  foot  of  Japawzaws,  intended  as  intimations 
that  he  had  fulfilled  his  part  of  the  contract  and  now  wanted  the 
reward.  Acting  upon  this  hint  the  captain  requested  Pocahontas 
to  retire  for  a  little  while  into  the  gun-room,  in  order  that  he  might 
confer  on  some  private  matter  with  J apawzaws ;  this  was  to  the 
effect  that  she  might  not  think  the  latter  was  privy  to  her  detention. 
On  sending  for  her  again.  Captain  Argall  told  her  in  the  presence 
of  Japawzaws  and  his  wife,  that  she  must  accompany  him  until 
such  time  as  peace  was  concluded  with  her  father,  whom  she  must 
never  expect  to  see  again  until  that  event  had  taken  place. 

The  poor  deceived  Pocahontas  wept  long  and  violently,  while 
the  two  base  creatures  who  had  inveigled  her  into  the  snare  set  up 
the  most  terrible  howlings,  bewailing  their  unhappy  fate  even  more 
loudly  than  Pocahontas  ;  who  upon  the  captain's  fair  persuasions, 
by  degrees  pacifying  herself,  Japawzaws  and  his  wife,  with  their 
beloved  kettle  and  other  toys,  went  merrily  ashore,  and  Pocahon- 
tas was  conveyed  prisoner  to  James  Town — a  sad  return  for  all 
her  disinterested  kindness  to  that  place  and  its  inhabitants.  A 
messenger  having  been  dispatched  to  Powhatan  iuforming  him  that 
he  must  ransom  the  daughter  he  loved  so  dearly,  with  the  men, 
weapons,  and  commodities  he  had  stolen,  the  old  chief,  though 
deeply  exasperated  deigned  no  answer,  and  three  months  passed 
ere  he  condescended,  (on  being  again  urged)  "  to  send  back  seven 
of  our  men  with  each  an  unserviceable  musket."  After  a  long 
time,  during  which  many  bravados  and  skirmishes  took  place,  a 
truce  w^as  proclaimed,  and  two  of  Powhatan's  sons  came  to  see  their 
sister,  with  whom  they  had  a  most  joyful  and  rejoicing  meeting. 
Pilaster  John  Rolfe,  and  Master  Sparks,  then  accompanied  these 


302 


POCAHONTAS. 


Drotliers  to  Powliatan ;  but  tliougli  kindly  entertained,  lie  would  not 
admit  tliem  to  his  presence.  Master  Rolfe  having  conceived  a  vio- 
lent passion  for  Pocahontas,  a  marriage  was  concluded  between 
tliem ;  Powhatan  not  choosing  to  honour  the  ceremony  with  his 
presence,  but  sending  as  his  deputy,  an  old  uncle  of  Pocahontas, 
named  Opachisco,  who  with  the  two  young  men,  her  brothers,  did 
what  was  necessary  on  his  behalf  for  the  confirmation  of  the  mar- 
riage. After  this  event,  the  lovely  messenger  of  the  wilderness  was 
known  no  more  as  Pocahontas,  but  was  styled  the  "  Lady  Rebecca" — 
instructed  in  the  English  language,  baptized  and  converted  to  the 
Christian  faith,  of  which  she  is  said  to  have  been  "most  capable 
and  desirous,"  as  also  "  that  she  had  no  desire  to  return  to  her  father, 
nor  could  w^ell  endure  the  society  of  her  owne  nation ;  bearing 
most  true  and  constant  affection  to  her  husband,  by  whom  she 
had  one  son,  whom  she  most  dearly  loved."  It  is  also  related 
of  her  that  "  she  became  very  formal  and  civil  after  the  Eng- 
lish manner,  and  that  divers  persons  of  great  rank  and  quality 
were  very  kind  to  her  on  her  arrival  in  England,  whither  she  had 
accompanied  her  husband."  Captain  Smith,  on  hearing  that  she 
was  in  England,  wrote  a  short  memorial  concerning  her,  addressed 
to  Anne  of  Denmark,  wife  to  James  I.,  in  which,  after  enumerating 
the  valuable  services  she  had  rendered  the  colony,  he  asks  the 
royal  favour  for  her  "  exceeding  desert,  her  birth,  virtue,  want,  and 
simplicity."  In  consequence  of  this  appeal,  Pocahontas  was  pre- 
sented to  the  King  and  Queen,*  as  well  as  to  many  of  the  nobility, 
who,  in  afterwards  speaking  of  her,  generally  concluded  "  that  God 
had  a  great  hand  in  her  conversion,  and  that  they  had  seen  many 
English  ladies  worse  favoured,  proportioned,  and  behavoured." 

This  style  of  panegyric,  be  it  remembered,  applies  not  to  the 
beautiful  Indian  maiden,  graceful  in  her  own  national  garb,  and 

*  She  had  also  her  portrait  taken  in  the  horrible  costume  of  that  period. 


POCAHONTAS 


303 


liglitly  springing  along  tlie  j)rairie,  but  to  tlie  "  Lady  Rebecca  " — • 
instructed^  hafptized^  converted^  formal^  civil,  wearing  an  Anne  of  Den- 
mark liat  and  slioi-t  feather,  a  long  tight  boddice,  a  monstrous  ruff, 
and  still  more  monstrous  hooped-petticoat  and  farthingale,  bearing 
the  same  resemblance  to  her  former  self  as  does  the  airy  blue-bell 
when  pressed,  dried,  and  pasted  down  in  a  lady's  album,  to  its  wild 
sisters,  nodding  gaily  in  the  sunshine  between  the  fern  and  fox-glove. 
But,  'twas  but  outside  change  after  all — the  heart  beat  truly,  softly, 
still.  When  Captain  Smith  went  to  see  her  before  setting  sail  for 
New  England,  he  says,  "  after  a  modest  salutation  she  turned  away, 
and  hiding  her  face,  spake  not  to  any  one  for  two  or  three  hours." 
When  she  began  to  talk  she  said,  "  You  did  promise  Powhatan 
what  was  yours  should  be  his,  and  he  the  like  to  you  ;  you  called 
him  father,  being  in  his  land  a  stranger,  and  by  the  same  reason  so 
must  I  do  you."  The  captain  here  with  grave  formality  says, 
"  which  though  I  would  have  excused,  I  durst  not  allow  of  that 
title,  because  she  was  a  king's  daughter ;  with  a  well-set  counte- 
nance, she  said,  '  Were  you  not  afraid  to  come  into  my  father's 
country,  and  caused  fear  in  him  and  all  his  people  but  me,  and  fear 
you  here  I  should  caU  you  father  ?  I  tell  you  then  I  will,  and  you 
shall  call  me  child,  and  so  I  will  be  for  ever  and  ever  your  coun- 
tryman.' "  Then,  as  if  in  the  fullness  of  her  heart,  she  thus  con- 
cludes :  "  They  did  tell  us  always  you  were  dead,  and  I  knew  no 
other  till  I  came  to  Plymouth  ;  yet  Powhatan  did  command  Ut- 
tamotomakkin  to  seek  you  and  know  the  truth,  because  your  coun- 
trymen will  lie  much."  This  savage,  one  of  Powhatan's  chiet 
men,  was  purposely  sent  by  the  king  to  number  the  English  and 
inform  him  of  their  condition.  Arriving  at  Plymouth,  he  got  a 
long  stick  and  made  a  notch  on  it  for  every  person  he  met,  but 
soon  grew  weary  of  the  task.  Meeting  Captain  Smith  accidentally 
in  London,  he  told  him  Powhatan  had  ordered  him  to  find  him 


304  POCAHONTAS. 

out,  tliat  lie  might  sliow  Mm  Ms  God,  king,  queen,  and  prince. 
He  was  told  that  lie  liad  already  seen  tlie  king,  but  could  hardly 
be  persuaded  tliat  King  James  could  be  a  king.  Then  he  said  very 
sadly,  "  You  gave  Powhatan  a  white  dog,  which  Powhatan  fed  as 
himself;  but  your  king  gave  me  nothing,  and  I  am  better  than  a 
dog."  When  Powhatan,  on  his  return,  asked  him  how  many  peo- 
ple there  were  in  England,  he  answered,  "  Count  the  stars  in  the 
sky,  the  leaves  on  the  trees,  and  the  sands  upon  the  sea  shore ;  for 
such  is  their  number." 

Shortly  after  the  interview  of  Pocahontas  with  Captain  Smith, 
when  at  G-ravesend,  a  small  port  about  twenty-five  miles  from 
London,  when  about  to  embark  with  her  husband  and  child  for 
America,  she  was  taken  ill  of  violent  fever,  and  died  very  suddenly. 
Her  little  son,  Thomas  Kolfe,  was  left  at  Plymouth,  with  Sir  Lewis 
Stukeley,  who  desired  to  take  charge  of  it.  The  words  that  describe 
her  death  are,  "  It  pleased  God,  at  Gravesend,  to  take  this  young 
lady  to  his  mercy,  where  she  made  not  more  sorrow  for  her  unex- 
pected death  than  joy  to  the  beholders  to  hear  and  see  her  make 
so  religious  and  godly  an  end." 

Thus  perished  untimely,  in  the  bloom  of  life,  the  lovely  and 
benign  Pocahontas,  whose  whole  life  was  a  pure  and  freshening 
stream  of  love  and  goodness  to  all  with  whom  she  came  in  contact ; 
and  whose  sweet  life  may  serve  as  a  remembrancer  to  the  daugh 
ters  of  civilization,  how  little  lower  than  the  angels,  a  life  passed 
in  practising  the  mild  and  gentle  virtues  of  her  sex,  could  make 
even,  an  untutored  child  of  nature  like  Pocahontas — from  whom, 
at  this  day,  many  of  the  first  families  in  Virginia  are  proud  to  trace 
their  descent. 


POCAHONTAS 


305 


DIRGE  OF  POCAHONTAS. 
I. 

The  graceful  Mondamiu  *  lies  sliatter'd  and  broken 
In  the  pride  of  her  blooming,  ere  touched  by  decay ; 

In  the  land  of  the  stranger,  her  grave  the  sole  token. 
The  Flower  of  Windagua  f  is  withered  away. 

II.  ;  •.   •■      i'    .  ■- 

No  more  her  swift  foot  o'er  the  prairie  is  bounding, 

No  more  her  canoe  lightly  skims  o'er  the  bay  ; 
Her  maidens  in  sorrow  the  reed-flutes  are  sounding ;      ■ '  ' 

The  flower  of  Windagua  is  withered  away. 

Captain  Smith  died  in  London,  in  the  year  1631,  aged  fifty-two. 
His  encounter  with  the  three  Turks,  aUuded  to  in  the  beginning 
of  this  article,  is  as  follows : 

"  In  the  plames  of  Regall  is  a  city  not  only  of  men  and  fortifi- 
cations, stronge  of  itselfe,  but  so  en\droned  with  mountaines  that 
made  the  passages  so  diflicult,  that  in  all  these  warres  no  attempt 
had  been  made  upon  it  to  any  purpose.  To  possess  himselfe  first 
of  the  most  couvenient  passage,  which  was  a  narrow  valley  betwixt 
two  high  mountaines,  the  commander,  Earl  Meldritch,  sent  Colonel 
Yeltus  with  his  regiment,  to  lye  in  ambuscade  and  to  drive  all  the 
cattle  they  could  find  before  a  fort  in  that  passage,  whom  he  suf- 
posed  would  sally,  seeing  but  some  small  party,  to  recover  their 
prey ;  which  took  such  good  success  that  the  garrison  was  cut  off 
by  the  ambuscade  and  the  Skonces  seized ;  yet,  six  days  elapsed 
ere  Avith  six  thousand  pioneers  he  could  make  a  passage  for  his  ord- 
nance. The  Turkes  having  such  warning,  strengthened  the  towne, 
made  frequent  sallies  upon  the  besiegers,  and  scornfully  deriding 
the  slow  progress  they  were  compelled  of  necessity  to  make,  de- 
clared their  ordnance  were  at  pawn,  and  how  they  grew  fat  for 

*  The  Indian  maize  plant.  t  Wingandocoa ;  Indian  name  of  Virginia. 

39 


« 


306  POCAHONTAS. 

want  of  exercise,  and  fearing  they  sTiould  depart  ere  they  could 
assault  the  city,  sent  this  challenge  to  any  captaine  in  the  Christian 
army.  That  to  delight  the  ladies,  who  did  long  to  see  some  court- 
like pastime,  the  Lord  Turbashawe  did  defie  any  captaine  that  had 
the  command  of  a  company  who  durst  combat  with  him  for  his  head. 
The  matter  being  discussed,  it  was  accepted;  but  so  many  questions 
grew  for  the  undertaking,  that  it  was  decided  by  lots,  which  fell 
upon  Captain  Smith. 

"Truce  being  made  for  the  time,  the  Rampiers  all  beset  with 
faire  dames  and  men  in  amies,  the  Christians  in  Battalio ;  Turba- 
shawe with  a  noise  of  howboyes  entred  the  field,  well  mounted 
and  armed :  on  his  shoulders  was  fixed  a  great  pair  of  wings,  com- 
posed of  eagle's  feathers  within  a  ridge  of  silver,  richly  garnished 
with  gold  and  precious  stones,  a  janizary  before  him,  bearing  his 
lance  ;  on  each  side  another,  leading  his  horse  ;  where  long  he  staid 
not,  ere  Smith  with  a  noise  of  trumpets,  only  a  page  bearing  his 
lance,  passing  by  him  with  a  courteous  salute,  took  his  ground  with 
such  goode  successe,  that  at  the  sound  of  the  charge,  he  passed  the 
Turke  thorow  the  sight  of  his  beaver,  face,  head  and  all,  that  he 
fell  dead  to  the  ground,  where  alighting  and  unbracing  his  helmet, 
cut  off  his  head,  and  the  Turkes  tooke  his  body  ;  and  so  returned 
without  any  hurt  at  all.  The  head  he  presented  to  the  Lord 
Moyses,  the  generall,  who  kindly  accepted  it ;  and  with  joy  to  the 
whole  armie  he  was  generally  welcomed. 

"  The  death  of  this  captaine  so  swelled  in  the  heart  of  one 
Grualzo,  his  vowed  friend,  as  rather  inraged  with  madnesse  than 
choUer,  he  directed  a  particular  challenge  to  the  conqueror,  to  re- 
gaine  his  friend's  head  or  lose  his  owne,  with  his  horse  and  ar- 
mour for  advantage,  which  according  to  his  desire  was  the  next  day 
undertaken ;  as  before,  upon  the  sound  of  the  trumpets,  their 
lances  flew  to  pieces  upon  a  cleare  passage ;  but  the  Turke  was  neere 


POCAHONTAS. 


unliorsed.  Tlieir  pistolls  were  tlie  next,  whicli  marked  Smitli  upon 
tlie  placard  ;  Ibnt  the  next  sliot,  tlie  Turke  was  so  woimded  in  tlie 
left  arme,  that  being  not  able  to  rule  his  horse  and  defend  himselfe, 
he  was  throwne  to  the  ground,  and  so  bruised  with  the  fall,  that 
he  lost  his  head,  as  his  friend  before  him ;  with  his  horse  and  ar- 
mour ;  but  his  body  and  his  rich  apparell  was  sent  backe  to  the 
towne. 

"  Every  day  the  Turkes  made  some  sallies,  but  few  skirmishes 
would  they  endure  to  any  purpose.  Our  workes  and  approaches 
being  not  yet  advanced  to  that  height  and  effect  which  was  of  ne- 
cessitie  to  be  performed,  to  delude  time.  Smith  with  so  many  incon- 
tradictible  perswading  reasons,  obtained  leave  that  the  ladies 
might  know  he  was  not  so  much  enamoured  of  their  servants'  heads, 
but  that  any  Turke  of  their  ranke  who  would  come  to  the  place  of 
combate  to  redeem e  them,  should  have  his  also  upon  the  like  con 
ditions,  if  he  could  winne  it. 

"  The  challenge  was  accepted  by  a  formidable  Turke  named 
Bona  Mulgro.  The  next  day  the  champions  entering  the  field  as 
before  :  each  discharging  their  pistolls,  having  no  lances,  but  such 
martial  weapons  as  the  defendant  appointed,  no  hurt  was  done ; 
their  battle-axes  were  the  next,  whose  piercing  bills  made  some- 
times the  one,  sometimes  the  other  to  have  scarce  sense  to  keepe 
their  saddles,  specially  the  Christian  received  such  a  blow  that  he 
lost  his  battle-axe,  and  failed  not  much  to  have  fallen  after  it, 
whereat  the  supposing  conquering  Turke  had  a  great  shout  from 
the  rampiers.  The  Turke  prosecuted  his  advantage  to  the  uttermost 
of  his  power  ;  yet  the  other,  what  by  the  readinesse  of  his  horse, 
and  his  judgment  and  dexterity  in  such  a  businesse,  beyonde  all 
meii's  expectation,  by  God's  assistance,  not  onely  avoided  the 
Turke's  violence,  but  having  drawne  his  faulchion,  pierced  the 
Turke  so  urder  the  culets  thorow  backe  and  body,  that  although 


308  POCAHONTAS. 

lie  aliglited  from  Ms  liorse,  lie  stood  not  long  ere  he  lost  his  head, 
as  the  rest  had  done.  This  good  successe  gave  such  great  en- 
couragement to  the  whole  armie,  that  with  a  guard  of  six  thousand, 
three  sjDare  horses,  before  each  a  Turke's  head  upon  a  lance,  he 
was  conducted  to  the  Generall's  Pavillion  with  his  presents. 
Moyses  received  both  him  and  them  with  as  much  respect  as  the 
occasion  deserved,  embracing  him  in  his  armes,  gave  him  a  faire 
horse,  richly  furnished,  a  semitere  and  belt,  worth  tbree  hundred 
ducats  ;  and  Meldiitch  made  him  Serjeant  Major  of  his  regiment. 
Sigismundus  coming  to  view  his  armie,  and  being  made  acquainted 
with  the  service  Smith  had  done  at  Olumpagh,  Stowle,  "Wesenburg, 
and  Kegall ;  with  great  honour  gave  him  three  Turke's  heads  in 
a  sliield  for  his  armes,  by  Patent  under  his  hand  and  scale,  with 
an  oath  ever  to  wear  them  in  his  colours,  his  picture  in  gould,  and 
three  hundred  ducats  yearly  for  a  pension." 


# 


• 


LA  VALLIERE. 


LoTJiSE  FEA]srgoiSE  de  La  Vallieee  was  made  up  of  feminine  ten- 
derness. Slie  was  tender  unto  softness ;  modest  unto  diffidence ; 
gentle  unto  timidity.  Her  nature  was  so  tender  tliat  it  divided 
itself  wholly  between  love  of  lieaven,  and  love  for  one  sole  eartUy 
object.  Her  love  for  heaven  was  trembling  adoration ;  her  love 
for  her  lover  was  idolatry.  She  gave  heaven  her  repentant  wor- 
ship after  giving  her  lover  all  heart-worship.  She  was  a  signal  in- 
stance of  a  woman  loving  a  monarch  for  himself ;  she  loved  the 
man,  not  the  king,  in  Louis  XIV.  She  was  born  in  1644  ;  and 
came  of  distinguished  jDarentage.  Her  mother  married  again ;  and 
this  second  husband,  being  in  the  household  of  Gaston,  Duke  of  Or- 
leans, Mademoiselle  de  La  Yalliere  passed  her  early  years  at  the 
court  of  that  prince,  residing  alternately  at  Orleans  and  at  Blois. 
Her  youth  was  marked  by  sweetness  of  disposition  and  discreet 
behaviour ;  and  when  the  king's  only  brother  espoused  Henrietta 
of  England,  daughter  to  Charles  I.,  Mademoiselle  de  La  Valliere 
was  placed  about  her  person,  as  maid  of  honour.  Shining  in  the 
midst  of  a  brilliant  scene,  taking  part  in  the  pleasures  of  a  young 
and  gallant  court,  she  won  the  esteem  of  all,  by  her  rectitude,  her 
innate  love  of  virtue,  her  gentle  manners,  and  the  sincerity  and 
simplicity  which  distinguished  her.    Her  personal  advantnges, 


310 


LA  VALLIERE. 


whidi  exceeded  lier  mental  endowments,  attracted  universal  ad- 
miration. The  Duchess  of  Orleans— Elizabeth  Charlotte— thus 
describes  her  : — "  Her  countenance  possessed  an  inexpressible 
charm  ;  she  had  a  delicate  shape  ;  and  her  eyes  appeared  to  me  far 
more  beautiful  than  those  of  Madame  Montespan.  Her  deport- 
ment was  modesty  itself.  She  limped  slightly ;  but  that  did  not 
detract  from  her  grace." 

In  the  habit  of  constantly  beholding  Louis  XIV.,  the  "  tender 
and  susceptible  heart "  of  which  La  Valliere  herself  makes  frequent 
mention,  became  fascinated  by  the  embodiment  he  formed  of  her 
young  ideal.  In  her  eyes  he  showed  a  hero — a  hero  of  romance 
in  living  perfection, — young,  handsome,  princely,  radiant  with 
glory  and  renown.  He  inspired  her  with  the  liveliest  admiration, 
which  soon  ripened  into  the  liveliest  affection.  Her  timid  nature 
shrunk  from  admitting  even  to  herself  her  sentiments;  but  its 
tenderness  could  not  resist  the  bewitchiug  influence  of  passion. 
Her  very  gentleness  of  disposition  made  her  vainly  attempt  to 
subdue  love  by  duty ;  her  gentleness  softened  into  weakness,  in- 
stead of  gathering  strength  from  effort.  Such  characters  as  La 
VaUiere's,  reap  no  courage  from  warmth  of  heart ;  their  best  virtue 
is  submission.  They  are  moral  cowards,  notwithstanding  their 
fervour.  The  best  womanly  tenderness  generates  fortitude  of 
mind ;  the  tenderness  of  such  a  woman  as  La  Valliere  degenerates 
with  feebleness  of  soul.  Her  attachment  for  Louis  was  a  fond  and 
exclusive  preference  ;  it  absorbed  her  thoughts,  and  engrossed  her 
whole  being.  Her  piety  towards  heaven  was  not  so  much  an  ac- 
tive principle,  as  a  helpless  leaning  upon  devotion  as  a  resource — 
a  turning  for  support  towards  divine  comfort,  when  earthly  trust 
had  failed.  La  VaUiere's  tenderness  limited,  not  enlarged  her 
spirit ;  but,  within  that  limit,  it  was  beautiful  of  its  kind.  It  ren- 
dered her  meek,  unreproachful,  and  purely   disinterested.  It 


LA  VALLIERE 


311 


enabled  lier  to  sustain  injurious  treatment  that  would  have  mad- 
dened a  woman  of  less  yielding  temper  ;  and  it  caused  her  to  love 
with  a  prodigalit}^,  that  made  love  itself  all-sufficing  to  her  happi- 
ness. Through  all  the  various  inclinations  for  other  women  which 
Louis  XIV.  by  turns  indulged,  he  constantly  returned  to  her,  who, 
by  her  genuine  affection,  more  than  by  the  charms  of  her  person, 
had  won  him  without  art  or  guile. 

It  was  at  Fontainebleau,  in  1661,  that  the  intimacy  of  their 
connexion  commenced.  During  two  years.  Mademoiselle  de  la 
Valliere  was  the  secret  object  of  all  the  entertainments  and  bril- 
liant pastimes  given  at  court.  The  celebrated  fete  at  Versailles, 
which,  under  the  title  of  "  The  Pleasures  of  the  Enchanted  Isle," 
occupied  seven  entire  days,  was  ostensibly  in  honour  of  the  queen- 
mother,  and  queen-consort,  but  was  in  reality  a  gallantry  on  the 
part  of  Louis  XIV.  offered  at  the  feet  of  the  young  beauty  he  had 
wooed  and  won.  The  royal  amour,  though  studiously  concealed 
from  the  principal  personages  concerned,  was  not  so  absolutely  a 
mystery  but  that  it  was  suspected  by  many ;  and  various  evidence 
may  be  traced  that  the  real  centre  of  the  king's  purposed  homage 
in  giving  this  magnificent  festivity,  was  tacitly  understood  to  be 
the  lovely  Mademoiselle  de  la  Valliere.  The  description  of  the 
seven  days'  entertainment  bears  testimony  of  the  regal  splendour 
and  rich  taste  exercised  by  Louis  XIV.,  on  this  occasion.  Not  only 
were  the  pageants  and  banquets  of  the  most  sumptuous  descrip- 
tion, but  the  talent  of  Lulli,  and  the  genius  of  the  great  Mohere 
himself,  were  enlisted  to  lend  the  refinements  of  music,  wit,  poetry, 
and  dramatic  representation,  to  adorn  the  scene.  The  kmg  himself 
took  part  in  the  first  day's  pageant,  which  had  for  subject  the 
Palace  of  Alcinoe,  where  Kuggiero  and  his  brave  knights  are 
assembled  to  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  the  Enchanted  Isle.  Louis, 
who  represented  Ruggiero,  is  described  as  "  mounted  on  a  superb 


312 


LA  VALLIEEE 


charger ;  its  harness  of  the  colour  of  fire,  and  shining  resplendent 
with  gold,  silver,  and  precious  stones.  His  Majesty  himself  was 
armed  in  the  Grecian  style ;  and  wore  a  cuirass  of  silver,  covered 
with  a  rich  embroidery  of  gold  and  diamonds.  His  action  and 
whole  deportment  were  worthy  of  his  rank ;  his  helmet,  covered 
with  flame-coloured  plumes,  was  incomparably  elegant ;  and  never 
did  an  air  more  lofty,  more  martial,  exalt  a  mortal  above  his 
fellow-men." 

Moliere's  Princesse  d'Elide,"  "  Les  Facheux,"  the  first  three 
acts  of  his  admirable  "  Tartuflfe,"  and  "  Le  Mariage  Force,"  formed 
the  chief  substance  of  the  second,  fifth,  sixth,  and  seventh  days'  • 
several  entertainments.  In  the  first-named  of  these  dramas  there 
occurs  a  passage  which  afibrds  one  of  those  instances  above  alluded 
to,  of  the  idea  that  prevailed  of  the  king's  partiality  for  Made- 
moiselle de  La  YaUiere,  and  of  her  being  the  secret  object  of  this 
unparalleledly  tasteful  entertainment.  The  uj^holding  of  an  amour- 
ous  passion,  as  the  crowning  princely  quality  in  a  youthful  royal 
nature,  is  a  subtle  compliment  addressed  to  Louis's  admiration  for 
the  fair  young  creature  who  was  real  queen  of  the  fete,  instead  of 
its  apparent  queens — the  (in  every  sense)  nominal  queens. 

The  lines  are  put  into  the  mouth  of  Arbate,  tutor  to  the  young 
prince,  Euryale ;  and  are  addressed  to  him : — 

"  Et  bien  que  mon  sort  touclie  a  ses  deriiiers  soleils, 
Je  dirai  que  I'amour  sied  bien  a  vos  pareils ; 
Que  ce  tribut  qu'on  rend  aux  traits  d'un  beau  visage, 
De  la  beaate  d'une  aine  est  un  clair  temoignasre, 
Et  qu'il  est  malaise  que,  sans  etre  amourcux, 
Un  jeune  prince  so  it  et  grand  et  generenx. 
C'est  une  qualite  que  j'aime  cn  un  monarque ;  » 
La  tendresse  du  coeur  est  une  grande  marque 
Que  d'un  prince  a  votre  age  on  pout  tout  presumer, 
Des  qu'on  voit  que  son  ame  est  capable  d'aimer. 
Qui  cette  passion,  de  toutes  la  plus  belle, 


LA  VALLIEKE 


313 


Traine  dans  un  esjn'it  cent  vertus  apres  elle ;  . 

Aus  nobles  actions  elle  pousse  les  cceurs, 

Et  tons  les  grands  heros  ont  senti  ses  ardours." 

Whicli — for  the  iiiw  wlio  are  unfamiliar  with  French — may  be 
rendered  thus : — ■ 

["  Althougli  my  old  life  numbers  years  in  long  suns,  ■   .■  ■ 

Young  blood,  suck  as  yours,  fervent  loving  becomes. 
I  maintain  that  the  homage  you  pay  a  sweet  face, 
Is  proof  of  your  judgment,  your  feeling,  and  grace  ; 
And  unless  a  young  prince  be  deeply  in  love. 
He's  scarce  to  be  ranked  usual  great  ones  above. 
'Tis  a  point  I  admire  in  monavchs  to  see  :  ' 
Tender-hearted  and  gracious  young  rulers  should  be  ; 
In  a  prince  of  your  age  we  look  for  this  sign 
That  all  may  be  hoped  from  a  nature  so  fine. 
Believe  me.  this  passion,  the  finest  of  all. 
Brings  myriad  virtues  in  train  with  its  thrall ;  ' 
To  loftiest  actions  it  prompteth  the  soul. 
And  hei'oes  the  greatest  have  owned  its  controul."] 

Amidst  the  general  assemblage  of  ladies,  La  Valliere  could 
enjoy,  undistinguished,  the  splendours  of  this  gorgeous  fete,  and 
accept,  unobserved,  the  compliment  it  conveyed  to  herself  from  her 
royal  lover.  Its  veiled  meaning  precisely  suited  her  retiring  dis- 
position, and  soothed  her  scruples  of  delicacy.  She  dreaded 
nothing  so  much  as  open  attentions.  It  was  neither  from  vanity 
nor  ambition,  that  she  loved  the  sovereign  of  France ;  she  had  a 
genuine  alfection  for  him,  never  throughout  her  life  having  a  single 
other  attachment,  and  desiring  that  he  alone  should  know  of  her 
love,  as  he  alone  possessed  it.  Her  first  jDregnancy  was  concealed 
with  so  much  care,  that  no  one  in  the  court  was  aware  of  the  cir- 
cumstance ;  and  the  queen  had  no  suspicion  of  it.  Two  only,  of 
the  four  children  she  had  by  Louis,  lived — Marie- Anne  de  Bour- 
bon, named  Mademoiselle  de  Blois,  afterwards  Princess  de  Conti, 
born  in  1666;  and  the  Count  de  Vermandois,  born  in  1667.  In 

40 


314  LAVALLIERB.. 

tliat  year,  the  king  created  a  ducliy  from  two  baronies,  and  tlie 
estate  of  Vanjour  in  favour  of  Mademoiselle  de  La  Valliere,  and 
tlie  princess,  lier  daughter.    When  she  received  this  honour,  and 
when  her  children  were  legitimatized,  she  was  mucli  troubled :  for 
she  had  thought  that  her  being  a  mother  ought  to  remain  un- 
knoA7U ;  or  at  any  rate,  that  it  should  be  left  unacknowledged.  It 
is  worthy  of  note,  that  she  always  called  her  daughter  "  Made- 
moiselle ;"  while  the  princess  called  her  "  belle  maman."  Madame 
de  Sevigne  alluded  to  Madame  cle  La  Valliere,  when  she  wrote  thus 
in  1680: — "You  must  imagine  her"  (Madame  de  Montespan), 
"  precisely  the  opposite  of  that  little  violet   who  hid  herselt 
beneath  the  grass;  and  who  was  ashamed  of  being  mistress, 
mother,  and  duchess.    There  will  never  be  another  of  her  stamp." 
La  Valliere  was— so  to  speak— virtuous  in  the  midst  of  her  errors  ; 
for  each  fresh  fault  cost  her  as  much  as  her  first  step  in  guilt.  She 
was  modest  in  the  midst  of  her  frailty;  for  she  avoided  its  evi- 
dences, and  shrank  from  its  preferments.    The  marks  of  superior 
distinction  and  regard  which  the  king  bestowed  upon  her  in  pre- 
ference to  the  queen,  were  distasteful  to  her  reason  and  sense  of 
ridit.    His  tokens  of  favour,  thus  conferred,  hurt  her  delicacy.  In 
this  respect,  she  was  tempted  to  complain  of  being  too  well  loved — 
she,  whose  own  abundant  love  involuntarily  craved  correspondent 
return.    Very  different  from  most  royal  favourites,  she  never  once 
took  advantage  of  her  influence.    She  loved  the  king — not  his 
power.    Tier  patronage  confined  itself  to  intercession  for  those 
persons  who  had  displeased  Louis,  and  to  solicitations  for  those 
who  needed  assistance  or  advancement — without  exceptional  bias 
in  favour  of  her  own  relations.    Her  absence  of  mercenary  spirit  is 
testified  in  the  case  of  Fouquet ;  w^ho,  being  struck  with  the  early 
charms  of  Mademoiselle  de  La  Valliere,  and  utterly  unscrupulous  in 
his  modes  of  satisfying  his  transitory  inclinations,  offered  the  young 


LA  VALLIERE. 


315 


maid  of  honour  tlie  sum  of  £8,000,  au  offer  wMcli  slie  rejected  with 
indignation,  although  at  that  time  entertaining  no  idea  of  having 
attracted  the  king's  attention,  nor  any  hope  of  winning  his  heart. 
At  a  court  with  a  school  of  morals  like  that  amidst  which  La 
Yalliere  dwelt,  such  conduct  has  sufficient  singularity  to  give  it 
merit ;  otherwise,  from  a  young  lady,  a  similar  refusal  would  be 
nothing  extraordinary— nay,  not  worth  recording.    In  her  case,  it 
deserves  ^Draise.  'Her  disinterestedness  is  also  evinced  in  a  subse- 
quent incident  of  her  life;— when  her  brother  died,  in  1676,  she 
entreated  the  king  to  retain  the  post  filled  by  the  Marquis  de  La 
Valliere,  in  acquittal  of  his  debts,  without  alluding  in  the  slightest 
Avay  to  her  nephews.    Her  discretion,  and  freedom  from  all  self- 
seeking,  during  the  season  of  her  ascendancy,  caused  her  to  be 
entrusted  unhesitatingly  with  the  most  important  secrets  by  her 
royal  lover  ;  who  obtained  from  her  a  promise  to  be  equally  candid 
on  her  side,  and  conceal  nothing  from  him.    The  single  instance 
recorded,  in  which  can  be  traced  her  possessing  courage  to  act  with 
independence  and  firmness,  does  her  honour— although  natural 
timidity  soon  regained  its  characteristic  sway.    It  seems  that,  in  a 
certain  delicate  case,  w^here  a  friend's  concerns  w^ere  at  stake,  she 
failed  to  disclose  the  secret  to  the  king,  notwithstanding  her 
promise  to  tell  him  every  thing.    This  was  much  for  her— so 
tender  and  so  willingly  sincere— to  risk  giving  offence  in  love,  for 
the  sake  of  preserving  faith  in  friendship.    But,  upon  Louis's  pene- 
trating the  mystery,  and  reproaching  her  keenly  for  withholding 
any  thing  from  his  knowledge,  her  short-lived  courage  failed  her, 
and— in  the  trouble,  confusion,  and  consternation  of  finding  she 
had  incurred  her  lover's  displeasure— she  crept  at  early  morning 
from  the  Tuileries  palace,  where  she  still  dwelt  in  attendance  on 
the  princess  Henrietta,  and  took  refuge  in  the  convent  of  S*'  Mane, 
at  Chaillot.    However,  being  sought  with  extreme  diligence,  and 


316 


LA  VALLIEHE. 


speedily  discovered,  slie  was  prevailed  upon  to  return ;  where  she 
resumed  her  chains,  only  to  be  more  closely  riveted  than  ever. 

Meantime,  modest  and  retiring — as  she  had  always  been— she 
continued  to  behold  only  the  king  himself  in  all  the  homage,  pub- 
lic and  private,  that  surrounded  her.  A  look  from  Louis— a  single 
smile  from  this  beloved  master — crowned  her  fondest  wishes. 

Allusions  to  the  characteristics  of  Madame  de  La  Valliere  are 
to  be  found  in  another  court  dramatist  of  the  time.  Racine's  "  Be- 
renice "  contains  many  unequivocal  points  in  reference  to  Louis 
XIV.  and  his  tender  mistress,  under  figure  of  the  EmjDeror  Titus 
and  the  heroine  of  the  play.    Berenice  exclaims — ■ 

"  Jugez  cle  ma  douleur,  moi  dont  Tardeur  extreme, 
Je  Tous  I'ai  dit  cent  fois,  n'aime  en  lui  qui  kii-meme, 
Moi  qui,  loin  des  grandeurs  dont  il  est  revetu, 
■    Aurais  clioisi  son  cceur  et  eherclio  sa  vertu." 

["  Judge  of  my  grief :  I,  wliose  ardent  affection 
Loves  in  him  but  himself,  has  no  other  direction  ; 
Had  I  known  him  apart  from  his  grandeur's  condition, 
His  heart  and  his  virtues  had  roused  my  ambition."] 

And  afterwards,  she  addresses  Titus  himself,  thus : — 

"  Depuis  quand  croycz-vous  que  ma  grandeur  me  touche  ? 
Un  soupir,  un  regard,  un  mot  de  votre  bouche, 
Voila  I'ambition  d'un  coeur  comme  le  mien  : 
Voyez-moi  plus  souvent,  et  ne  me  donncz  rein." 

["  Since  when,  can  you  think,  that  my  greatness  concerns  me, 
A  sigh,  look,  or  word  from  your  mouth,  is  what  burns  me  ; 
These,  these,  are  the  aims  of  a  heart  such  as  mine  : 
See  me  more  oft,  give  me  nought  that  is  thine."] 

In  the  midst  of  her  fond  weakness,  however,  she  never  ceased 
— with  the  instinct  of  her  soft  nature — to  seek  a  sense  of  sustain- 
ment,  and  consciousness  of  some  endeavour  on  her  own  part,  from 
the  strict  performance  of  her  religious  duties.    No  appointed 


LA  VALLIERE. 


317 


periods  of  fasting  and  prayer  appeared  too  long  or  too  severe  for 
lier;  no  clmrcli  observances,  during  wMcli  tlie  custom  of  the 
world,  or  the  etiquette  of  the  court  prescribed  an  abstinence  from 
pleasure  and  gaiety,  did  she  neglect.  They  were  hailed  as  a  kind 
of  respite — moments  of  suspended  wrong — occasions  of  temporary 
good — which  she  might  employ  in  making  a  virtuous  return 
within  herself,  and  indulge  the  pious  yearnings  her  tender  nature 
had  ever  nourished.  La  Yalliere  may  be  called  a  saintly  sinner ; 
for  through  all  her  mundane  aberrations,  she  preserved  a  constant 
regard  for  sacred  institutions.  Her  Catholic  creed  well  suited 
with  her  loving  and  gentle  character ;  its  promises  of  mercy  and 
pardon  towards  erring  mortality  when  repentant,  its  consoling 
hopes,  its  cheering  absolution,  were  precisely  needed  by  a  soul  at 
once  affectionate  and  timid. 

During  the  time  when  La  Valliere  was  the  declared  mistress 
of  the  king — which  did  not  prevent  numerous  infidelities  on  his 
part — Louis  yielded  to  the  fancy  with  which  he  was  inspired  for 
Madame  de  Montespan.  This  latter,  wanting  in  delicacy— both  as 
a  woman,  and  as  one  who  loved — consented  to  live  in  companion- 
ship with  Madame  de  La  Valliere,  sharmg  the  same  table,  and  al- 
most the  same  apartments  with  her.  "She  preferred  at  fh'st,"  says 
Madame  de  Caylus,  "  that  the  king  should  arrange  it  thus  ;  either 
because  she  hoped  thereby  to  mislead  the  pubhc  and  her  husband, 
or  because  her  pride  took  greater  pleasure  in  the  humihation  of 
her  rival,  than  alarm  lest  the  charms  of  this  latter  should  counter- 
vail her  own." 

The  meek-spirited  La  Valliere — ever  incapable  of  any  other 
sentiment  than,  love,  with  fond  clinging  to  its  object — remained, 
not  only  at  the  court,  but  in  the  traui  of  Madame  de  Montespan  ; 
who  heartlessly  abused  her  advantages.  Numberless  were  the  af- 
fronts, the  mortifications,  that  La  Valliere  had  to  endure  the  whole 


318 


LA    V  A  L  L I E  R  E . 


of  tlie  time  slie  still  stayed  at  Versailles.  Her  lieart  was  wrung 
by  tliem ;  but  she  rarely  com]3lainecl,  deeming  herself  still  happy 
that  she  could  behold  him  she  had  no  power  to  cease  loving  as  if 
he  had  not  changed  towards  her.  One  day,  when  she  ventured 
mournfully  to  tell  the  king  of  the  pain  she  felt  in  this  consociation, 
he  answered  coldly,  that  he  was  too  frank  to  conceal  the  truth  from 
her ;  and  that  she  must  be  aware  that  a  king  of  his  disposition  did 
not  like  to  be  controuled.  She  is  said  to  have  addressed  a  sonnet 
to  Louis  on  this  occasion ;  and  it  is  added,  that  the  verses  were 
praised  by  him,  although  he  contented  himself  with  assuring  his 
first  mistress  that  he  should  ever  regard  her  with  esteem ;  but 
there  is  doubt  as  to  the  sonnet  having  been  La  Valliere's  own  com- 
position. It  is  sujDposed  to  have  been  written  for  her  by  some  one 
of  the  men  of  letters  Mdiom  she,  as  Duchess  de  La  Valliere,  was 
acquainted  with,  and  encouraged.  However  that  may  be,  there 
is  sufficient  evidence  existing,  that,  at  this  time,  Madame  de  La 
Valliere  suffered  much  unkindness.  The  Duchess  of  Orleans  said : 
"  The  king  treated  her  very  ill,  at  the  instigation  of  Madame  de 
Montespan ;  that  he  was  harsh  with  her,  and  ironical  to  a  degree 
of  insult ;  that  the  poor  creature  imagined  she  could  not  make  a 
greater  sacrifice  to  God,  than  in  sacrificing  to  Him  the  very  origin 
of  her  misdeeds,  and  believed  she  was  doing  the  more  rightly, 
since  her  penance  emanated  from  the  same  source  where  she  had 
sinned ;  and  therefore  she  stayed,  as  a  penance,  with  La  Montes- 
j^an." 

It  was  in  1674  that  the  Duchess  de  La  Valliere  put  in  practice 
a  resolution  she  had  long  formed.  In  the  month  of  February,  1671, 
she  had  retired,  for  the  second  time,  to  the  convent  of  S'^  Marie 
de  Chaillot,  wishing  to  weep  there  uninterruptedly.  She  wrote  to 
the  king,  that  "she  should  sooner  have  quitted  Versailles,  after 
having  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  his  good  graces,  if  she  could 


LA  VALLIEKE. 


319 


have  induced  lierself  never  more  to  beliold  him ;  that  this  weak- 
ness had  been  so  invincible,  that  it  was  hardly  even  yet  she  felt 
capable  of  making  such  a  sacrifice  to  God ;  that  she  trusted,  how- 
ever, the  passion  she  still  entertained  for  him  might  serve  her  in 
her  penitence,  and  that  after  having  given  him  her  youth,  it  was 
not  too  much  to  dedicate  the  remainder  of  her  life  to  the  care  of 
her  salvation."  Madame  de  Sevigne,  who  records  this,  adds: — 
"  The  king,  wept  abundantly,  and  sent  Monsieur  Colbei  t  to  Chail- 
lot,  entreating  her  to  return  immediately  to  Versailles,  that  she 
might  sjDeak  with  him  again.  Monsieur  Colbert  conducted  her 
back ;  the  king  talked  for  an  hour  with  her,  and  was  affected  to 
tears."  -.'.-i'. 

After  some  days,  to  the  great  vexation  of  the  reigning  favourite, 
Madame  de  La  Valliere  appeared  to  be  on  better  terms  with  the 
monarch  than  she  had  been  for  a  long  time  past.  Two  years 
elapsed  without  the  duchess  showing  any  sign  that  she  had  re- 
curred to  her  idea  of  retirement  from  the  world ;  but  a  severe  ill- 
ness, which  reduced  her  to  the  verge  of  the  grave,  brought  her 
back  fully  to  the  design  of  retrieving  her  past  life.  The  "Reflec- 
tions on  the  Mercy  of  God,"  which  she  was  said  to  have  written,  on 
her  recovery,  forms  a  transcript  of  the  sentiments  at  that  time  oc- 
cupying her  mind ;  although  it  is  by  no  means  certain  that  she 
was  its  author.  Her  confidential  friend  was  the  Marechal  de  Bel- 
lefond ;  he  it  was  who  had  carried  her  letter  to  the  king.  Mad- 
ame de  La  Valliere  also  possessed  an  excellent  guide  and  adviser 
in  Bossuet,  then  bishop  of  Condom.  It  is  to  the  Marechal  de  Belle- 
fond  that  those  letters  of  Madame  de  La  Valliere  are  addressed, 
which  have  been  printed,  and  the  first  of  which  is  dated  June, 
1673.  On  the  21st  November,  she  writes  thus  to  her  friend,  the 
marechal :— "  I  feel  that,  notwithstanding  the  magnitude  of  my 
fault — which  is  ever  present  to  me — ^love  has  a  greater  part  in  my 


320  VALLlilRE. 

sacrifice,  tliau  tlie  necessity  for  doing  penance."  Tliis  passage  af« 
fords  a  characteristic  epitome  of  La  Yalliere's  nature.  It  sliows 
liow,  with  lier,  religious  love  was  iDut  tlie  substitute  for  secular 
love  ;  and  that  when  the  one  was  debarred,  the  other  was  adopted. 
Love  was  the  necessity  of  La  Valliere's  tender  temperament.  Love 
for  Louis  XIV.,.  if  possible  ;  if  not,  love  for  heaven.  She  thought 
that  alone  worthy  to  succeed  to  the  king  in  her  affections.  Her 
royal  lover  was  the  first  object  of  her  soul  ;  next  to  him,  God.  It 
is  curious  to  notice  how  closely  upon  irreverence,  these  weakly- 
revering  characters  trench.  Soft,  sweet,  and  loving.  La  Yalliere's 
tenderness  wanted  strength  to  be  high-souled.  But  it  was  gentle, 
and  beautifully  meek.  Never,  but  on  one  occasion,  was  that  mild 
disposition  betrayed  into  bitterness  of  exjDression.  It  was  when, 
having  finally  decided  upon  quitting  the  court,  she  said  to  Madame 
de  Scarron  (afterwards  Madame  de  Maintenon),  who  had  sought 
to  dissuade  her  from  immuring  herself  in  a  cloister : — ^"  Whenever 
I  may  endure  sorrow  at  the  convent,  I  shall  call  to  mind  what 
those  people  have  made  me  suffer."  She  alluded  to  the  king  and 
Madame  de  Montespan.  The  pang  must  have  been  great  indeed 
that  could  cause  her  to  speak  of  Louis  in  such  terms  !  Coupling 
him  with  her  rival,  to  speak  of  them  as  "  those  people  "  (ces  gens- 
Ik !)  Her  heart  must  have  been  sore  to  writhing,  before  it  could 
have  smarted  her  tender  nature  into  such  contemptuous  utter- 
ance. 

She  resolved  upon  the  convent  of  the  Carmelites  for  her  retreat ; 
and  took  leave  publicly  of  the  king,  who  witnessed  her  departure 
with  dry  eyes.  She  was  then  not  above  thirty  years  of  age.  The 
Abbe  de  Fromentieres  ,  afterwards  bishop  of  Aire,  pronounced  the 
customary  sermon  that  celebrated  her  noviciateship ;  taking  for 
his  text,  the  parable  of  the  lost  sheep,  gathered  into  the  fold  by 
the  good  shepherd. 


LA  VALLIERE. 


321 


Her  profession  as  nun,  took  place  on  tlie  3d  of  June,  16*75. 
The  queen  herself  placed  the  black  veilon  the  head  of  Madame  de 
La  Valliere ;  and  her  friend,  Bossuet,  bishop  of  Condom,  celebrated 
for  his  powers  of  Christian  eloquence,  delivered  the  sermon  on  this 
occasion.  Madame  de  Sevigne  gives  an  account  of  the  ceremony 
in  one  of  her  letters ;  which,  while  it  testifies  the  public  esteem  in 
which  Madame  de  La  Valliere  was  held,  and  the  universal  interest 
she  inspired  in  the  circle  where  she  had  moved,  affords  a  lively  pic- 
ture of  the  manners  of  the  time,  when  court  intrigues,  court  piety, 
court  ladies,  court  divines,  are  all  discussed  in  a  gay  mingling  of  gos- 
sip which  deals  almost  equally  lightly  with  the  anxiety  for  places  at 
a  fashionable  ceremonial,  and  with  the  solemn  event  it  celebrated, — 
with  the  king's  regret  for  his  former  mistress,  his  giving  her  up  to 
a  superior  claimant  (viz :  Heaven  !)  and  his  liberal  provision  for 
his  own  child  by  her  as  a  proof  of  his  affection  !  This  is  what  she 
says :—"  Yesterday,  the  Duchess  de  La  Valliere  was  professed. 
Madame  de  Villars  promised  to  take  me  there ;  and  by  some  mis- 
understanding, we  feared  we  should  not  get  a  place.  "We  had  but 
to  present  ourselves,  although  the  queen  had  said  that  she  did  not 
wish  the  privilege  extended ;  however,  God  would  not  have  it  so, 
and  Madame  de  Villars  was  quite  afflicted.  But  she  performed 
this  action— this  beautiful  creature — as  she  did  all  her  others , 
that's  to  say,  in  a  manner  the  most  charming.  Her  loveliness 
amazes  everybody.  But  what  will  astonish  you,  is,  that  the  ser- 
mon of  Monsieur  de  Bossuet  was  not  so  divine  as  we  all  expected. 
So  many  virtues,  joined  to  the  most  touching  charms  of  person, 
made  Louis  XIV.  feel  very  acutely  the  loss  of  such  a  heart  as 
Madame  de  La  Valliere.  He  was  obliged  to  yield  it  to  heaven, 
which  alone  was  worthy  to  possess  it.  But  what  he  has  done  for 
Mademoiselle  de  Blois,  whom  he  married  to  the  Prince  de  Conti, 
proves  to  what  a  degree  he  loved  the  mother." 
41 


322 


LA  VALLIERE. 


Madame  de  Caylus  wrote,  at  a  mucli  later  period,  that  she  had 
seen  her  in  the  latter  years  of  her  life,  and  that  she  had  heard  her, 
with  a  tone  of  voice  that  went  to  the  heart,  uttering  admiral)le 
things  upon  the  condition  and  hajDpiaess  she  already  tasted,  not- 
withstanding the  rigour  of  her  penance. 

The  queen  and  the  Duchess  of  Orleans,  used  to  visit,  in  her 
convent,  sister  Louisa  of  Mercy ;  and  it  was  to  the  former — the 
wife  of  Louis  XIV. — -that  the  penitent  nun  answered,  in  16Y6: — 
"  No,  I  am  not  glad ;  but  I  am  content."  It  was  not  agreeable  to 
her  own  feelings,  this  having  frequently  to  receive  the  queen,  and 
several  of  the  court  ladies,  who  came,  as  they  said,  to  profit  by  the 
edification  afforded  by  the  holy  nun  ;  but,  with  her  native  gentle- 
ness, she  submitted  to  the  necessity.  It  was  a  kind  of  fashion ; 
one  of  those  elegant  amusements  under  the  name  of  religious  avo- 
cations adopted  by  fine  ladies,  to  soothe  their  consciences  by  a  show 
of  devotional  enthusiasm,  in  the  midst  of  gaieties  that  grow  insipid 
by  too  uninterrupted  a  monotony  of  recurrence.  When  Paris  and 
Versailles  cloyed,  a  visit  to  the  convent  of  the  Carmelites,  formed 
an  agreeable  variety — at  once  a  relaxation,  and  a  piece  of  pro- 
priety. When  Montespan's  caprices  w^earied,  and  "  le  grand 
monarque's  "  glories  palled  upon  the  appetites  of  the  court  ladies, 
a  morning  with  La  Valhere,  to  witness  how  decorously  she  fulfilled 
her  vocation,  was  a  delectable  pleasure.  It  was  like — to  use  a 
French  turn  of  expression — assisting  at  a  performance,  and  observ- 
ing how  well  the  part  of  a  nun  was  enacted  by  an  ex-maid  of 
honour.  Another  of  Madame  de  Sevigne's  letters  contains  a 
passage  confirming  this  idea  of  the  tone  of  court  feeling  then  pre- 
vaihng.  In  1679,  Madame  de  La  Valliere  had  to  face  the  compH- 
ments  of  the  whole  polite  world,  to  undergo  the  congratulations  of 
the  court,  the  Parisian  circles,  the  fashionable  populace  entire,  upon 
the  marriage  of  her  daughter ;  and  it  was  upon  this  occasion  that 


LA  VALLIERE 


323 


Madame  cle  Sevign6  write?,  in  lier  usual  peculiarly  Frencli  style  of 
touching  upon  highest  and  trivialest  things  in  a  breath,  which 
seems  to  our  staider  notions  little  else  than  elegant  levity  : — "  She 
seasoned  perfectly  her  tenderness  as  a  mother,  with  that  of  the 
spouse  of  Jesus  Christ.  She  was  still  handsome,  in  1680  ;  possess- 
ing much  grace,  a  fine  air,  together  with  the  noblest  and  most 
touching  modesty.  In  truth,  this  habit,  and  this  retreat,  impart  to 
her  a  great  dignity."  It  is  singular  to  notice  what  stress  French 
minds  lay  upon  hecomingness  in  every  act  or  appearance  they 
record  of  a  person.  They  admire  great  deeds ;  but,  above  all, 
they  admire  them  greatly  performed.  ,  . 
To  parody  Hamlet's  words  : —        ;  . 

Eigbtly  to  be  great,  ,     •  -  ■ 

Is,  uot  to  stir  witbout  great  pompousuess,  ... 
But  greatly  to  find  grandeur  in  a  straw. 

In  the  mouth  of  November,  1683,  Bossuet  having  undertaken 
to  announce  to  Madame  de  La  Valliere  the  death  of  the  Count  de 
Vermandois,  she  at  first  shed  many  tears  ;  but  suddenly  recovering 
herself,  she  exclaimed  : — "  I  am  weeping  too  much  the  death  of  a 
son,  whose  birth  I  have  not  yet  sufiiciently  wept." 

From  the  year  1675  to  lYlO,  she  lived  practising  the  greatest 
austerities.  She  consecrated  to  heaven  all  that  warmth  of  tender- 
ness which  constituted  her  nature ;  and  poured  forth  at  the  foot  of 
the  altar  that  passionate  softness  of  which  her  heart  was  com- 
pounded. Her  sweetness  of  temper  enabled  her  to  triumph  in  the 
worthiest — because  the  most  Christian-spirited  manner — over  her 
former  rival ;  for  upon  one  occasion,  when  Madame  de  Montespan 
came  with  the  queen  in  April,  1766,  to  see  her,  and  inquired  if 
there  was  any  thing  she  wished  to  have  said  to  the  king,  she 
evaded  answering,  with  a  grace  and  amiability  the  most  complete, 
although  feeling  deeply  hurt.  Many  years  afterwards  she  achieved 


324 


LA    V  A  L  L  T  E  R  E  . 


a  still  more  signal  triumpli  of  meekness  and.  forgiveness ;  for 
Madame  de  Montespau,  being  lierself  no  longer  at  court,  returned 
to  the  convent  of  the  Carmelites,  where  Madame  de  La  Valliere  be- 
came for  her  a  kind  of  spiritual  director. 

On  the  6th  of  June,  1710,  Louise  de  La  Valliere  expired,  after 
having  been  a  long  sufferer  from  protracted  and  painful  infirmities. 
The  Abbe  de  Choisy,  in  his  memoirs,  has  bequeathed  us  a  written 
portrait  of  her :  "  Mademoiselle  de  La  Valliere  was  not  one  of 
those  perfect  beauties,  who  are  often  admired  without  being  loved. 
She  was  very  loveable,  and  this  line  of  La  Fontaine's, 

'  Et  la  grace  plus  belle  encore  que  la  beaute,' 
[And  grace  more  beauteous  still  than  beauty's  self,] 

seems  to  have  been  made  expressly  for  her.  She  had  a  fine  com- 
plexion, an  agreeable  smile,  blue  eyes,  with  a  look  so  tender,  and 
at  the  same  time  so  modest,  that  it  awakened  love  and  esteem  si- 
multaneously. Although  possessed  of  Httle  intellect,  she  never  failed 
to  cultivate  it  daily  by  continual  reading.  "Without  ambition, 
without  vices,  she  was  more  occupied  with  thinking  of  him  she 
loved,  than  with  pleasing  him.  Wholly  absorbed  in  herself  and 
her  passion — which  was  the  sole  one  of  her  life — ^prizing  reputation 
above  all  things,  and  ex|)osmg  herself  to  the  risk  of  death  more 
than  once,  rather  than  allow  her  frailty  to  be  suspected;  sweet- 
tempered,  liberal,  timid,  never  forgetting  that  she  had  done  ill, 
ever  hoping  to  return  to  the  paths  of  virtue,  this  Christian  senti- 
ment obtained  for  her  the  treasures  of  Divine  mercy,  by  causing 
her  to  pass  a  large  portion  of  her  life  amid  the  solid  and  even  ex- 
quisite joys  of  an  austere  penitence.  From  the  time  of  her  own 
and  the  king's  mutual  attachment,  she  would  never  see  her  former 
friends,  nor  even  hear  speak  of  them  ;  solely  occupied  with  her 
passion,  which  supplied  to  her  the  place  of  all  else.  It  was  not  that 
the  king  required  of  her  this  extreme  seclusion ;  he  was  not  formed 


LA    V  A  L  L I E  R  E 


32£ 


to  "be  jealous — still  less,  to  be  deceived.  But  it  was,  that  slie  wish- 
ed constantly  to  see  lier  lover,  or  to  tliiuk  of  liim,  without  being 
disturbed  by  indifferent  persons."  •  ' 

This  summary  of  her  character  wholly  confirms  our  estimate  of 
its  exclusiveness  and  limited  qualities.  It  shows  her  tenderness ; 
but  it  demonstrates  that  she  was  neither  large-minded  nor  large- 
hearted.  It  also  offers  another  significant  point  of  consideration- 
borne  out  by  similar  particulars  in  the  foregoing  account  of  La 
Valliere — as  displaying  the  complaisance  with  which  ecclesiastical 
dignitaries  can  extend  leniency  towards  female  error  in  the  person 
of  a  king's  mistress ;  the  moderation  they  can  afford  in  treatmg  of 
a  monarch's  misdemeanours,  and  the  chary  terms  in  which  they  can 
dress  a  royal  favourite's  lapse  from  virtue.  Extenuation  and  apology 
wait  on  court  sin.  A  poor  deluded  peasant-girl  would  have  been 
heaped  with  scorn  and  reprobation  ;  while  La  Valliere  is  lauded  as 
a  specimen  of  excellence,  and  hailed  as  an  interesting  and  edifying 
penitent.  She  has  a  palliative  homily  pronounced  for  her  by  a  pro- 
spective bishop ;  her  inaugural  sermon  is  preached  by  one  of  France's 
most  eminent  prelates,  an  existing  bishop;  and  her  panegyric  is 
written  by  a  literary  Abbe.  Queens,  princesses,  and  marchionesses, 
flock  to  admire  her;  a  pattern-woman  writes  to  her  own  daughter 
applauding  her ;  while  she  herself  is  raised  to  be  a  duchess,  and 
rises  into  a  reputed  saint.  Verily,  when  female  weakness  is  hardly 
dealt  with  in  the  person  of  lowly  women,  it  might  be  as  well  to 
call  to  mind  the  story  of  La  Valliere.  Error  springing  from  a  too 
tender  heart  in  those  both  indigent  and  ignorant,  should  find  some 
forbearance,  when  the  ultra-tenderness  of  La  VaUiere,  rich,  high- 
born, and  educated,  found  such  distinguished  toleration. 


I 


1  f 


«' 


MAEIA  THERESA. 


Maeia  Theresa  was  an  embodiment  of  executive  regality.  She 
liad  the  promptitude,  forethouglit,  and  vigilance  of  a  detective 
officer ;  and  discharged  duty  with  the  rigid  precision  of  a  police- 
man. She  was  essentially  practical,  and  thoroughly  industrious- 
minded.  She  was  ready  in  an  emergency,  equal  to  a  difficulty, 
and  sturdy  for  order  and  regulation.  She  met  reverses  with  bold- 
ness and  fortitude,  and  used  prosperity  for  instituting  reforms. 
She  was  greatly  remedial ;  remedying  sudden  mischances  by  en- 
countering them  firmly ;  and  remedying  existing  evils  with  the 
strong  .hand  of  eradication. 

She  was  daughter  of  Charles  VI.  of  Austria,  Emperor  of  Ger- 
many, and  Elizabeth  Christina,  of  Brunswick  Wolfenbuttel.  In 
default  of  male  issue,  Charles  YI.  appointed  that  his  daughter, 
Maria  Theresa,  should  be  heiress  of  all  the  Austrian  dominions  • 
and,  consent  to  this  appointment — entitled  the  Pragmatic  Sanction 
— was  obtained  from  the  Diet  of  the  empire,  all  the  German 
princes,  and  several  of  the  European  powers. 

At  the  age  of  nineteen,  Maria  Theresa  married  Francis,  of 
Lorraine ;  who  became  Grand  Duke  of  Tuscany  the  year  after  his 
nuptials;  and  accompanied  by  his  consort,  repaired  to  Florence. 
Upon  her  father's  death,  in  1740,  Maria  Theresa  lost  no  time  in 


328 


IMARIA  THERESA 


returning  to  Vienna,  that  slie  miglit  assert  her  rights,  and  take 
possession  of  those  dominions  bequeathed  as  her  inheritance.  She 
had  to  maintain  her  patrimony  against  the  various  claimants  that 
arose  to  dispute  her  succession :  for  the  Elector  of  Bavaria,  and  of 
Saxony,  the  Kings  of  Spain,  France,  and  Sardinia,  each  advanced 
pretensions  to  certain  portions  of  the  Austrian  Monarchy,  which 
they  agreed  to  dismember,  and  divide  among  them  in  respective 
shares ;  while  Frederick  II.  of  Prussia,  surnamed  the  Great,  as- 
serted that  he  was  entitled  to  four  Duchies  in  Silesia.  Maria 
Theresa  met  all  these  claims  with  the  resolution  and  energy  that 
marked  her  character.  She  assumed  immediate  supremacy  in 
Austria,  Bohemia,  and  her  other  German  states  ;  and  went  straight 
to  Presburg,  took  the  constitutional  oaths  of  Hungary,  and 
caused  herself  to  be  jDroclaimed  Queen  of  that  kingdom.  One  of 
her  first  cares  was  to  secure  the  joint  nomination  of  her  husband  to 
all  the  crowns  she  inherited ;  conferring  upon  him  the  title  of  co- 
regent,  Avhile  preserving  to  herself  all  the  rights  of  sovereignty 
guaranteed  by  the  Pragmatic  Sanction.  Meantime  her  enemies 
pressed  forward.  Frederick  of  Prussia's  offer  to  befriend  the 
young  monarch,  on  condition  of  her  yielding  Silesia  to  him,  having 
been  at  once  rejected,  he  proceeded  to  invade  that  j)rovince ;  while 
the  Elector  of  Bavaria,  aided  by  France,  marched  upon  Vienna, 
and  forced  Maria  Theresa  to  retire  from  the  capital.  She  repaired 
to  Presburg,  convoked  the  Hungarian  Diet,  and  made  personal 
appeal  to  them.  Young,  handsome,  and  spirited,  she  knew  that  the 
best  method  to  secure  the  fealty  of  those  assembled,  was  to  arouse 
their  chivalrous  sentiment,  and  generous  feeling :  she  therefore  ap- 
peared among  them,  bearing  her  little  son  in  her  arms,  and  said, 
that  assailed  on  all  sides  by  foes,  abandoned  by  her  friends,  and 
finding  even  her  own  relatives  hostile  to  her,  she  had  no  hopes 
save  in  the  loyalty  of  those  she  addressed ;  and  that  she  had  come 


M  A  K  I  A  THERESA. 


329 


to  jDlace  tlie  daugliter  and  tlie  son  of  tlieir  kmg  Ibeneatli  tlieir  pro- 
tection. The  Hungarian  nobles  responded  by  an  unanimous  sliout 
of  enthusiastic  allegiance.  Their  swords  flew  from  the  scabbards, 
as  they  exclaimed  with  one  accord  : — "  Moriamur  pro  rege  nostro, 
Maria  Theresa !  "  ["  Let  us  die  for  our  king,  Maria  Theresa  ;  " — 
the  title  of  Mng  being  applied  to  the  sovereign,  whether  male  or 
female.]  The  address  and  the  reply  were  both  pronounced  in 
Latin  ;  Maria  Theresa  being  mistress  of  that  language,  and  all  pub- 
lic acts  in  Hungary  being  in  that  tongue.  The  generous  impulse 
of  the  Hungarians  was  followed  up  by  their  immediately  putting  the 
whole  military  force  under  arms,  and  preparing  to  defend  their  young 
queen's  cause.  They  fought  gallantly ;  and  in  conjunction  with 
the  troops  she  could  muster,  succeeded  in  driving  back  the  French 
and  Bavarians  from  Maria  Theresa's  hereditary  states.  Charles 
YL  had  left  but  exhausted  financial  resources,  with  scantily-main- 
tained soldiery  ;  and  his  daughter's  condition  verified  Prince 
Eugene's  remark,  that  "  an  army  of  one  hundred  thousand  men 
could  better  guarantee  the  Pragmatic  Sanction  than  a  hundred 
thousand  treaties."  So  hemmed  in  was  Maria  Theresa  by  mena- 
cing hostilities  from  all  quarters,  that  at  one  time,  when  expecting 
another  child,  she  wrote  to  her  mother-in-law,  the  Duchess  of  Lor- 
raine : — "  I  hardly  know  whether  I  shall  have  a  single  town  left 
me,  where  I  can  lye  in."  Her  spirit  and  resolution  never  forsook 
her  throughout  the  complicated  clifiiculties  of  her  position.  The 
courage  with  which  she  met  them,  and  the  energy  with  which  she 
extricated  herself  from  them,  enforced  respect  even  from  her  oppo- 
nents ;  while  the  multiplicity  of  disasters  that  threatened  her,  drew 
sympathy  from  surrounding  nations.  In  England,  the  interest 
which  her  situation  inspired,  was  such, — especially  among  the 
women  there,  that  they  determined  to  place  at  her  disposal  the 
sum  of  one  hundred  thousand  j)ounds ;  selecting  Marll^orough's 
42 


330  M  A  11  I  A    T  11  E  R  E  S  A  . 

widow,  tlie  Ducliess  Sarah,  to  be  tlie  medium  of  tlieir  oflfer.  It 
was  deeply  felt  by  Maria  Theresa ;  but  she  did  uot  think  herself 
justified  in  acceiDtiug  it  at  a  time  when  the  parliament  were 
voting  subsidies  for  her  defence. 

Some  of  Maria  Theresa's  antagonists  made  peace  with  her ; 
others  became  her  allies;  and  in  1745  the  Elector  of  Bavaria,  who 
had  been  created  Emperor  of  Germany,  under  the  name  of  Charles 
VII.  dying,  Maria  Theresa's  husband  was  called  to  the  throne,  as 
Francis  I.  The  war  of  the  Austrian  succession  was  carried  on 
during  three  years  longer ;  when  the  peace  of  Aix-la-Chapelle, 
in  1748,  terminated  the  struggle,  leaving  Maria  Theresa  in  full 
and  undisturbed  possession  of  all  her  hereditary  dominions,  with 
the  exception  of  Silesia,  which  she  had  been  compelled  to  yield  to 
Frederick  of  Prussia. 

'No  sooner  did  Maria  Theresa  find  herself  settled  in  peaceful 
security,  than  she  prepared  to  carry  out  her  systems  of  internal 
reform.  The  vestiges  of  war  were  effaced ;  agriculture  was 
revived ;  commerce  and  the  arts  were  encouraged ;  shij)ping  inter- 
ests were  regarded ;  roads  constructed  and  repaired ;  Vienna  was 
enlarged  and  embellished ;  manufactories  of  woollen  cloths,  of 
porcelain,  of  glass,  and  silken  stuffs,  were  established.  Science 
flourished  in  the  foundation  of  several  universities  and  colleges ; 
while  one  of  them,  still  enjoying  celebrity,  bears  its  sovereign's 
name  in  gratitude  to  its  foundress — "  Collegium  Theresianum." 
Special  schools  of  drawing,  painting,  and  architecture  were  insti- 
tuted ;  while  Prague  and  Inspruck  had  public  libraries  endowed. 
Observatories,  enriched  with  valuable  apparatus  and  instruments, 
arose  in  Vienna,  in  Gratz,  and  in  Tirnau ;  Van  Swieten  was  sum- 
moned to  regenerate  the  study  of  medicine  and  surgery;  and 
Metastasio  was  invited  to  help  in  disseminating  a  cultivation  of  the 
Italian  muse  on  the  banks  of  the  Danube.    Measures  of  import- 


MARIA    T  II  E  11  E  S  A . 


331 


ance  and  magnitude  were  effected  by  Maria  Theresa  in  the  govern- 
ment  of  her  people.  She  introduced  great  amelioration  into  the 
feudal  system  as  it  then  existed  in  Bohemia ;  protecting  the  peas- 
antry from  the  worst  oppressions  of  their  seigneurial  superiors,  and 
freeing  them  from  personal  services,  which  she  commuted  for  a 
sum  of  money.  She  abolished  the  torture  in  her  hereditary  states 
in  Hungary,  and  in  Bohemia.  Severe  penalties  were  attached  to 
literary  piracy.  She  exerted  herself  to  promote  popular  education 
throughout  her  dominions,  establishing  a  general  system,  and  tak- 
ing means  for  its  efficacious  operation.  She  divided  into  three 
classes  the  schools  she  instituted : — firstly,  "  Normal  Schools,"  one 
in  each  province,  to  serve  as  a  model  for  all  the  other  schools  in 
the  province ;  secondly,  "  Principal  Schools,"  in  the  large  towns  ; 
and  thirdly,  "  Commercial  Schools,"  in  the  smaller  towns  and  vil- 
ages.  The  normal  schools  were  superintended  by  a  director: 
those  of  the  large  towns  were  under  the  superintendence  of  a 
magistrate  ;  and  the  commercial  schools,  under  that  of  a  parish 
priest,  or  an  assessor  of  the  communal  council.  A  central  commis- 
sion of  studies  was  likewise  appointed  for  general  supervision  of 
the  whole,  receiving  annual  reports,  and  examining  candidates  for 
masterships.  Maria  Theresa's  practical  mind,  moreover,  suggested 
that  nominal  labour  should  be  added  to  intellectual  culture  in  the 
instruction  given  at  the  communal  schools.  She  granted  extra 
emolument  to  those  teachers  whose  wives  taught  the  girls  sewing, 
knitting,  and  spinning ;  so  that,  children  thus  taught,  were  able  to 
earn  a  daily  addition  to  the  family  income.  The  system  worked 
admirably ;  and  formed  the  basis  of  that  extended  popular  educa- 
tion which  operates  so  beneficially  throughout  the  Austrian  mon- 
archy. It  was  as  if  the  ear  of  prescience  had  conveyed  to  Maria 
Theresa  the  import  of  Wordsworth's  noble  aspiration  for  a  njitional 
education. 


332 


M  A  K  I  A    T  II  E  E  E  S  A . 


"  0  for  the  coming  of  that  glorious  time 
When,  prizing  knowledge  as  her  noblest  wealth 
And  hest  protection,  this  imperial  Realm, 
While  she  exacts  allegiance,  shall  admit 
An  obligation,  on  her  part,  to  teach 
Them  who  are  born  to  serve  her  and  obey ; 
Binding  herself  by  statute  to  secure 
For  all  the  children  whom  her  soil  maintains, 
The  rudiments  of  letters,  and  inform 
The  mind  with  moral  and  religious  truth. 
Both  understood  and  practis'd — so  that  none, 
However  destitute,  be  left  to  droop 
By  timely  culture  unsustained ;  or  run 
Into  a  wild  disorder  ;  or  be  forc'd 
To  drudge  through  a  weary  life  without  the  help 
Of  intellectual  implements  and  tools  ; 
A  savage  horde  among  the  civiliz'd, 
A  servile  band  among  the  lordly  free  ! 
This  sacred  right  the  lisping  babe  proclaims 
To  be  inherent  in  him  by  Heaven's  will, 
For  the  protection  of  his  innocence; 
And  the  rude  boy — who  having  overpassed 
The  sinless  age,  by  conscience  is  enroU'd, 
Yet  mutinously  knits  his  angry  brow, 
And  lifts  his  wilful  hand  on  mischief  bent. 
Or  turns  the  godlike  faculty  of  speech 
To  impious  use — by  process  indirect 
Declares  his  due,  while  he  makes  known  his  need. 
This  sacred  right  is  fruitlessly  announc'd, 
This  universal  plea  in  vain  addressed, 
To  eyes  and  ears  of  parents  who  themselves 
Did,  in  the  time  of  their  necessity. 
Urge  it  in  vain;  and  therefore,  like  a  prayer 
That  from  the  humblest  floor  ascends  to  Heaven 
It  mounts  to  reach  the  state's  parental  ear  ; 
Who,  if  indeed  she  own  a  mother's  heart, 
And  be  not  most  unfeelingly  devoid 
Of  gratitude  to  Providence,  will  grant 
The  unquestionable  good." 


The  active  benefactions  of  Maria  Theresa  embraced  all  classes 


M  A  R  I  A    T  II  E  li  E  S  A  .  333 

of  her  subjects.  The  iufirni,  or  wounded  soldiery,  until  then 
suffered  to  remain  exposed  to  neglect,  were  received  into  large 
hospitals ;  while  the* widows  of  officers,  and  young  ladies  of  decayed 
families,  found  refuge  in  asylums  provided  by  humanity  and  piety. 
With  such  a  neighbour  as  Frederick  of  Prussia,  Maria  Theresa 
could  not  but  feel  her  period  of  peace  to  be  a  kind  of  armed 
repose :  she  therefore  maintained  numerous  troops,  keeping  them 
constantly  exercised  and  disciplined;  and  she  founded  military 
academies  at  Vienna,  Neustadt,  and  Antwerp. 

Maria  Theresa  was  a  pious  Catholic ;  but  she  yielded  no  im- 
plicit subservience  to  the  court  of  Eome,  and  preserved  strict 
discrimination  between  spiritual  and  temporal  jurisdictions.  She 
maintained  as  a  principle  that  all  things,  not  of  divine  institution^ 
were  subject  to  the  supreme  legislative  authority  of  the  state;  and 
reserved  to  the  crown  the  right  of  executing  several  momentous 
reforms.  She  effected  some  of  these  in  the  temporalities  of  the 
clergy ;  and  ordered  all  clerical  property  to  be  registered.  She 
suppressed  the  pensions  charged  at  Rome  upon  benefices ;  and  for- 
bade the  alienation  of  property  in  favour  of  ecclesiastical  bodies. 
She  entrusted  the  spiritual  rule  of  convents  to  the  respective 
bishops,  and  placed  their  secular  affairs  under  the  controul  of  the 
civil  magistrates.  She  restricted  the  arbitrary  power  of  the  Inqui- 
sition, then  existing  in  her  Italian  dominions ;  and  withdrew  from 
its  hands  the  censorship  of  books,  which  she  transferred  to  a  com- 
mission of  civil  magistrates  appointed  for  that  purpose.  In  Tus- 
cany, where  government  was  administered  by  a  council  of  regency 
in  the  name  of  her  second  son,  Leopold,  she  directed  that  lay 
assessors  should  be  conjomed  with  the  inquisitors  in  the  prosecu- 
tion of  all  suits  for  heresy.  The  check  she  put  upon  the  irrespon 
sible  and  despotic  operations  of  the  Inquisition,  led  to  its  final 
abolishment  in  Lombardy  and  Tuscany  at  a  subsequent  period. 


334 


MARIA  THERESA. 


Maria  Theresa  was  a  woman  of  tlie  strictest  morality.  She 
was  immaculately  virtuous  herself ;  and  she  exercised  severe  disci- 
pline over  the  morals  of  her  suLjects.  One  of  her  acts  recalls  a 
point  in  Shakespeare's  play  of  "  Measure  for  Measure ; "  which,  by 
the  way,  evinces  the  poet's  extraordinary  knowledge  of  local  circum- 
stances, and  shows  that  in  his  time  houses  of  ill-fame  existed  on 
the  same  spot,  as  a  Viennese  public  nuisance,  which,  at  a  later  pe- 
riod, was  cleansed  by  Maria  Theresa's  command.  She  supj)ressed 
the  suburban  taverns  of  Vienna,  and  endeavoured  to  clear  her 
realms  of  impurity  and  vice,  by  exterminating  haunts  of  profli- 
gacy, and  by  condemning  their  tenants  to  perpetual  banishment. 
Swarms  of  female  delinquents  were  conveyed  down  the  Danube 
to  manufactories  established  at  Teneswar  or  Waradine,  where  they 
were  sentenced  to  hard  labour.  She  carried  her  guardianship  of 
public  morals  even  into  interference  with  the  domestic  arrange- 
ments of  her  nobility;  for,  if  she  discovered  that  a  married  noble- 
man so  far  forgot  his  conjugal  duties  as  to  court  the  smiles  of  an 
opera  dancer,  or  other  frail  celebrity,  Maria  Theresa  sent  her  lieu- 
tenant of  police  on  a  visit  to  the  obnoxious  personage,  who,  with- 
out farther  ceremony,  was  ordered  to  take  her  departure  from  the 
Imperial  city  within  twenty-four  hours.  The  noted  Signora  Gabri- 
elli  was  thus  summarily  dismissed  to  her  native  city  of  Naples, 
upon  the  empress's  coming  to  the  knowledge  of  the  favours  which 
this  syren  of  song  and  gallantry  conferred  upon  one  of  the  noble- 
men in  her  imperial  Majesty's  court.  Rigorous  etiquette  was  a 
feature  in  Maria  Theresa's  household ;  her  own  august  inflexibility 
both  setting  the  example,  and  enforcing  the  observance  of  a  staid 
decorum  the  most  absolute. 

It  must  have  cost  the  austere  propriety  of  Maria  Theresa  no 
slight  effort,  when  she  penned  that  letter  to  the  meretricious  fa- 
vourite of  Louis  XV.,  addressing  Madame  de  Pompadour  as  "  Ma 


M  A  E  I  A    T  II  E  H  E  S  A . 


335 


cliere  amie ! "  The  necessity  must  liave  beeu  stringent  wliicli 
conld  nrge  tlie  imperial  hand  to  trace  such  words  as  a  form  of  ad- 
dress to  such  a  woman.  But  Maria  Theresa  was  not  one  to  hesi- 
tate when  a  point  was  to  "be  gained.  That  she  calculated  justly  in 
believing  that  her  condescension  would  have  its  desired  effect,  was 
proved  by  the  event.  Prince  Kaunitz,  who  possessed  the  entire 
confidence  of  the  empress,  had  been  despatched  by  Maria  Theresa, 
embassador  to  the  court  of  Versailles,  with  a  view  to  inducing  the 
French  king  to  enter  into  friendly  alliance  with  Austria.  For 
some  time  the  royal  favourite  exercised  her  influence  to  prevent 
Louis  XV.  from  listening  to  the  embassador's  proposals ; — ^but 
when  imperial  prude-punctilio  yielded  to  imperial  policy,  and  a 
letter  came  from  Maria  Theresa  to  herself,  beginning  "  Ma  cliere 
amie^''  Pompadour's  self-love  was  so  agreeably  flattered,  that  she 
used  her  utmost  efforts  to  obtain  the  king's  acquiescence  with  the 
empress's  wishes  ;  and  France,  long  inimical  to  her  claims  upon  the 
Austrian  succession,  became  one  of  Maria  Theresa's  most  powerful 
supporters. 

It  was  in  memory  of  the  success  which  crowned  her  arms  at 
the  battle  of  KoUin,  when  victory  was  obtained  under  Marshal 
Daun,  that  Maria  Theresa  instituted  the  military  order  which  bears 
her  name  :  and  the  peace  of  Hubertsbourg,  on  the  15th  February, 
1763,  terminated  the  seven  years'  war,  which  Frederick  the  Great 
waged  against  the  combined  forces  of  Kussia,  France,  and  Austria. 
It  ended,  leaving  Austria  with  the  same  boundary  of  dominion  as 
at  its  commencement.  It  is  strange  that  the  small  amount  of  sub- 
stantial alteration  effected  by  war,  seems  never  to  teach  mankind 
any  lesson ;  they  still  pertinaciously  continue  to  expend  millions  of 
wealth,  shed  rivers  of  blood,  and  destroy  multitudes  of  homes,  in 
this  fatal  game — a  game  wherein  all  parties  are  losers. 

In  the  year  1765,  the  Emperor  Francis  I.  died  ;  and  Maria  The- 


336 


M  ARIA  THERESA. 


resa  lost  a  husband  to  wliom  slie  was  strongly  attaclied.  Slie  wore 
mourning  for  Mm  until  tlie  period  of  her  own  decease ;  and  visited 
monthly  the  imperial  mausoleum  where  his  ashes  reposed.  Haunt- 
ed with  images  of  death,  she  caused  her  own  coffin  to  he  made, 
and  sewed  her  shroud  herself.  In  these  very  grave-clothes — made 
secretly  by  her  own  hand — it  is  said  she  was  ultimately  buried. 
But  while  in  private  dedicating  her  thoughts  to  funereal  reflection, 
she  still  gave  her  attention  to  political  interests  and  public  duties. 
The  dazzling  successes  of  a  woman  who,  like  herself,  occupied  an 
imperial  throne  with  extraordinary  pomp  and  brilliancy,  excited 
her  notice,  and  drew  forth  her  energies  into  their  wonted  activity. 
Catherine  II.  bore  so  hard  upon  Turkey  by  her  force  of  arms,  that 
Maria  Theresa  hastened  to  declare  her  intention  of  making  common 
cause  with  the  Ottomans,  if  the  Eussian  troops  crossed  the  Dan- 
ube. A  convention  had  even  been  already  signed  between  Austria 
and  the  Sublime  Porte  at  Constantinople,  in  ITYl.  But  on  a  sud- 
den, a  mutual  understanding  was  visibly  taking  place  between  the 
two  empresses;  and  Europe  was  far  from  conjecturing  its  cause. 
It  was  only  at  the  end  of  a  twelvemonth  that  the  dismemberment 
of  Poland,  concerted  between  the  courts  of  Petersburg,  Berlin,  and 
Vienna,  was  made  public  by  acts  of  taking  possession,  and  by 
manifestos.  Maria  Theresa's  participation  in  the  iuiquitous  deed 
of  the  partition  of  Poland  rests  a  blot  upon  the  policy  of  her 
reign.  She  has  been  rescued  from  the  charge  of  having  originated 
the  plan ;  since  the  document  of  the  secret  convention,  signed  at 
St.  Petersburg  on  the  l^th  February,  1772,  exists  to  prove  the 
contrary ;  wherein  it  is  stated  that  if  the  court  of  Austria  refuse 
consent  to  the  plan  of  partition,  Prussia  and  Eussia  will  combine 
against  her.  This  presented  to  Maria  Theresa  a  perplexing  dilem- 
ma. She  had  to  abandon  Turkey  to  its  fate  ;  and,  moreover,  to 
risk  a  rupture  with  France,  whose  direct  interest  it  was  to  support 


MARIA  THERESA. 


337 


Poland.  She  sounded  tlie  conrt  of  Versailles ;  and  its  hesitation 
deciding  her,  she  agreed  to  the  dismemberment  and  partition  in 
question.  Her  allotted  share  was  sumptuous  ;  among  other  acqui- 
sitions were  the  lucrative  salt  districts  of  Wielitzha,  Bochnia,  and 
Sambor.  Amid  the  general  outcry  that  arose  in  Europe  against 
the  crowned  spoliators,  Frederick  the  Great  slily  observed : — "  As 
for  me,  I  fully  expected  all  this  uproar  of  blame  ;  but  what  will 
they  say  of  her  saintship,  my  cousin  ?  "  His  cousin  of  Austria,  the 
righteous  Maria  Theresa,  was  not  a  woman  to  care  for  popular  dis- 
approbation, when  she  had  satisfactorily  achieved  a  purpose,  or 
gained  an  advantage.  She  acted  on  the  principle,  "  faites  bien,  et 
laissez  dire  ;  "  especially  when  the  "  faites  bien  "  could  be  interpre- 
ted in  the  large  and  double  sense  of  the  phrase  rendered  into  Eng- 
lish, "  do  well."  Thus  considered,  Maria  Theresa  was  perfectly 
content  to  "  do  well,  and  let  them  talk."  •■ 

On  the  death  of  her  husband,  Francis  I.,  their  son  was  elected 
emperor,  as  Joseph  II. :  but  Maria  Theresa  continued  to  hold  the 
reins  of  government ;  using  the  power  she  retained,  for  the  bene- 
ficial rule  of  her  subjects.  She  exercised  firm  sway,  and  carried 
her  authority  to  the  verge  of  hardness.  She  was  an  imperial  mar- 
tinet. Whatever  she  deemed  right,  was  to  be  done  at  all  hazards ; 
whatever  she  judged  expedient,  was  to  be  fulfilled,  without  demur, 
and  at  any  cost.  An  incident  is  related  of  her  despotic  decree  in 
a  matter  where  she  had  Avilled  obedience,  which  led  to  the  sacri- 
fice of  one  of  her  own  children.  Her  young  daughter,  the  arch- 
duchess Maria  Josepha,  had  been  espoused  by  proxy  to  the 
king  of  the  two  Sicilies ;  and  previously  to  the  bride's  departure 
for  Naples,  the  empress-mother  insisted  that  she  should  visit  the 
imperial  sepulchre,  and  perform  her  orisons  on  the  tomb  of  her 
departed  ancestors.  A  beloved  sister  had  been  lately  laid  there, 
a  victim  to  the  ravages  of  that  fearful  disease,  malignant  small- 

48 


338 


M  A  E  I  A    T  H  E  R  E  S  A . 


pox;  and  tlie  youug  princess  suffered  invincible  terror  at  the 
tliouglit  of  repairing  to  this  gloomy  spot.  She  threw  herself  on  her 
knees,  entreated  to  be  spared  this  shock,  pleaded  the  dread  she  en- 
tertained lest  her  vivid  recollection  of  the  horrors  she  had  lately 
witnessed  in  the  death  of  her  sister  from  the  awfid  malady,  and  her 
own  fear  of  infection,  might  lead  to  fatal  consequences  : — but  all 
in  vain.  Maria  Theresa's  fiat  had  gone  forth  ;  and  her  will  must 
be  obeyed.  The  poor  girl's  alarm  was  but  too  well  founded  ;  and 
whether  from  this  very  pre-conceived  and  pre-disposing  fright,  or 
whether  from  other  causes,  the  bride-queen  sickened  and  died  a 
short  time  after  her  enforced  descent  into  the  imperial  vaults  in 
submission  to  her  mother's  command.  Maria  Theresa's  sternness 
of  discipline  in  exacting  the  fulfilment  of  a  religious  observance, 
and  what  she  deemed  an  act  of  duty,  sufiiciently  explains  the  mo- 
tive of  this  cruel  inexorability :  but  there  are  not  wanting  those, 
who  impute  the  empress's  tyrannous  conduct  towards  the  young- 
Maria  Josepha,  to  the  fact  of  her  being  the  only  one  of  Maria 
Theresa^s  daughters  whom  she  could  not  hope  to  make  the  medium 
of  arriving  at  knowledge  useful  to  her  in  her  course  of  foreign 
policy.  It  was  believed  that  the  spuit  of  intrigue  and  manoeuvre 
belonging  to  diplomacy,  caused  Maria  Theresa  to  make  the  alli- 
ances of  her  beautiful  daughters,  the  young  arch-duchesses,  with  vari- 
ous crowned  heads,  a  means  of  getting  at  the  secret  councils  of  the 
several  cabinets  in  EuroiDe ;  and  Maria  Josepha  was  supposed  to 
have  shown  symptoms  that  she  would  not  prove  equally  tractable 
in  revealing  her  consort's  secrets.  However,  the  fate  of  Marie  An- 
toinette, and  that  of  Maria  Carolina,  Avho  subsequently  became 
queen  of  Naples,  in  place  of  the  deceased  Maria  Josepha,  make  it 
doubtful  whether  the  gentle  girl  who  died  in  her  youth,  had  not, 
after  all,  a  better  destiny  than  her  sisters.  The  tragical  end  of 
Marie  Antoinette,  and  the  career  of  turmoil,  conflict,  and  peril  that 


MARIA    T  II  E  R  E  S  A . 


339 


attended  Maria  Carolina  to  tlie  close  of  life,  makes  tlie  early  deatli 
of  the  yonng  creatnre  wlio  evinced  sufficient  moral  principle  to 
render  lier  betrayal  of  lier  future  husband's  confidence  a  matter  of 
doubt,  apjDear  blessed  in  comparison. 

In  Belgium,  Maria  Theresa  was  regarded  with  esteem  and  ven- 
eration; and  her  subjects  there  proved  their  attachment,  by  the 
readiness  with  which  they  advanced  the  loans  required  l)y  her 
in  the  prosecution  of  the  seven  years'  war. 

Her  adminstration  of  government  in  Lombardy  was  conducted 
with  energy  and  efficiency.  Her  minister,  Count  Firmian,  carried 
out  his  imperial  mistress's  views  with  judicious  exactitude.  Maria 
Theresa  gave  orders  for  a  new  "  censimento,"  or  valuation  of  es- 
tates, for  the  purpose  of  equitably  assessing  the  land-tax;  she 
caused  to  be  made  the  "  bilancio  camerale,"  or  regular  budget  of 
the  public  revenue ;  she  put  a  stop  to  a  custom  that  had  obtained 
of  farming  out  the  various  branches  of  the  indirect  duties  to  the 
highest  bidder;  she  made  regulations  to  protect  the  peasantry 
against  the  oppression  of  their  feudal  superiors,  and  established 
representative  communal  council  to  superintend  the  local  expen- 
diture :  in  short,  she  began  and  made  considerable  progress  in 
effecting  that  great  legislative  and  administrative  reform  which 
afterwards  gained  ground  under  her  son  and  successor,  Joseph  II. 
The  encouragement  which  her  minister.  Count  Fii'mian,  gave  to 
men  of  letters,  protecting  them  against  the  cabals  of  their  enemies, 
and  conferring  honourable  offices  upon  themselves,  reflected  credit 
upon  the  imperial  mistress  in  whose  name  he  acted.  Carli  was 
constituted  president  of  the  council  of  commerce ;  Beccaria  was  ap- 
pointed professor  of  political  philosophy ;  and  Pietro  Verri  was 
made  counsellor  and  president  of  the  board  of  finance  :  whUe  the 
wisdom  and  judgment  of  these  able  men  were  turned  to  state  ad- 


I 


340  M  A  E  I  A   T  H  E  R  E  S  A . 

vantage,  by  their  suggestions  and  advice  being  souglit,  heard,  and 
adopted. 

During  Maria  Theresa's  sway,  the  "  naviglio,"  or  navigable  canal 
of  Paderno,  which  joins  the  Adda  to  the  Martesana,  was  executed. 
At  the  j)eriod  of  her  coming  into  peaceable  possession  of  Lombardy, 
in  1749,  the  duchy  of  Milan  numbered  nine  hundred  thousand  in- 
habitants ;  and  in  1'770  the  population  had  increased  to  the 
amount  of  a  million  one  hundred  and  thirty  thousand.  Bossi,  in 
his  "  Storia  d'ltalia,"  bears  testimony  to  the  merits  of  Maria  The- 
resa's government  there,  when  he  says  : — "  Lombardy  had  never 
enjoyed  so  much  happiness  and  tranquillity  as  under  her  reign  : — it 
is  recorded  to  her  praise,  that  she  desired  to  be  informed  of  every 
act  of  the  administration ;  that  she  afforded  the  poor  and  humble, 
as  well  as  the  noble  and  rich,  free  access  to  her  presence ;  that  she 
listened  benignantly  to  all,  either  granting  their  petitions,  or,  if  she 
denied  them,  giving  reasons  for  her  refusal,  without  delusive  prom- 
ises, or  vague  evasions.  Just  before  her  death,  she  declared  that 
if  any  thing  reprehensible  had  been  done  in  her  name,  it  was  cer- 
tainly without  her  knowledge,  as  she  had  always  desired  the  wel- 
fare of  her  subjects.  During  a  forty  years'  reign,  she  invariably 
showed  a  love  of  justice  and  truth  ;  and  she  stated,  as  a  principle 
of  her  conduct,  that  it  is  oiily  the  pleasure  of  alleviating  distress 
and  doing  good  to  the  people  that  can  render  the  weight  of  a 
crown  supportable  to  the  wearer." 

Maria  Theresa  gloried  in  the  character  of  a  benefactor  ; — she 
liked  to  bestow.  She  preferred  that  all  advantages  should  flow 
from  her  immediate  gift,  rather  than  that  they  should  be  obtained 
by  independent  exertion.  This  is  precisely  the  bias  of  character 
which  renders  a  sovereign  in  what  is  called  a  "  paternal  govern- 
ment," valuable  to  his  or  her  subjects.    Possessing  this  inclination 


J 


MAEIA  THERESA. 


341 


to  confer  benefit,  unrestricted  power  in  a  monarcli  is  advantageous  ; 
but  liuman  beings,  witli  tlieir  fallible  and  imperfect  natures,  are 
i-arely  so  firm  and  constant  in  good  intention  as  to  be  safely 
entrusted  with  limitless  and  irresponsible  sway.  Maria  Theresa 
gained  the  title  of  "  Mother  of  her  people ;"  and  she  deserved 
it,  by  her  benevolent  sohcitude  for  their  interest ;  at  the  same 
time,  it  cannot  be  doubted  that  a  queen  like  Isabella  of  Castile, 
who  considered  public  opinion,  popular  feeling,  and  even  national 
prejudice  in  acting  for  her  subjects,  was  a  nobler  sovereign  than 
the  Empress  Maria  Theresa,  who  consulted  chiefly  her  own  views 
and  judgment  in  what  she  decreed  for  the  benefit  of  those  she 
ruled.  Some  of  the  anecdotes  recorded  by  her  biographers  as 
proof  of  her  inexhaustible  charity  and  goodness  of  heart,  confirm 
the  impression  of  that  self-emanation  which  is  to  be  traced  in  all 
her  conduct.  She  seemed  as  if  she  wished  every  benefit  to  her 
subjects  could  proceed  directly  from  her  own  hand, — that  she 
could  confer  advantage  by  a  nod ;  or  shower  blessings  upon  them 
at  a  breath.  One  of  these  related  incidents  not  only  illustrates 
this  view  of  her  character,  but  it  tends  to  exhibit  its  haughty 
belief  in  its  own  right  to  dispense  advantage  proportionately  with 
its  desire  to  do  so.  Her  imperial  majesty's  will  to  do  good, 
challenges  equality  with  Divine  ordination  ;  and  claims  the  power 
to  relieve  distress  in  emulation  of  Omnipotence : — thus  curiously 
arrogant  in  their  fancied  humility,  are  these  austerely  strict  per- 
sonages apt  to  be.  This  is  the  anecdote  in  question : — one  day, 
having  perceived  in  the  vicinity  of  her  palace,  a  poor  woman  and 
two  children,  starving  for  want  of  food,  she  exclaimed  in  a  tone  of 
the  deepest  grief: — "Alas!  what  have  I  done  to  Providence,  that 
such  a  fearful  spectacle  should  afllict  my  sight,  and  disgrace  my 
reign?"  And  thereupon  she  gave  orders  that  the  unfortunate 
mother  should  be  served  with  viands  from  her  own  table ;  caused 


342 


i\I  A  E  I  A  THERESA. 


lier  to  be  brouglit  into  lier  j^resence,  questioned  lier,  and  assigned 
her  a  pension  from  her  own  private  funds. 

The  sacrifice  of  personal  ease  which  Maria  Theresa  was  ever 
ready  to  make  in  the  discharge  of  her  dut}^,  the  scrupulous  exact- 
ness with  which  she  fulfilled  the  various  demands  of  her  high  sta- 
tion, the  unblemished  virtue  of  her  own  life,  command  the  highest 
respect.  She  had  been  heard  to  say: — "Irej)roach  myself  Avith 
the  time  I  sjDend  in  sleep,  as  so  much  robbed  from  my  jDeople." 

Frederick  the  Great,  although  politically  her  foe,  entertained 
esteem  for  Maria  Theresa's  character,  and  manifested  concern  when 
he  heard  of  her  death.  "What  he  wrote  to  D'Alembert  relative  to 
her,  testifies  the  sentiments  with  which  he  regarded  his  imperial 
kinswoman.  He  said,  that  "  although  he  had  made  war  against 
her,  he  had  never  been  her  personal  enemy ;  that  he  had  always 
respected  her,  and  that  she  was  an  honour  to  her  sex,  and  the 
glory  of  her  throne." 

A  contest  for  the  succession  of  Bavaria,  to  which  Joseph  II. 
had  induced  his  imperial  mother  to  lay  claim,  was  brought  to  a 
close  by  the  mediation  of  France  and  Russia,  and  resulted  in  what 
Frederick  of  Prussia  called  "  a  war  of  the  pen,"  Austria  was  com- 
pelled to  renounce  its  pretension,  and  the  peace  of  Teschen,  in 
IT 7 9,  which  terminated  the  affair,  was  the  last  political  act  of 
Maria  Theresa. 

She  expired  at  the  age  of  sixty-three,  on  the  29th  of  Novem- 
ber, 1Y80,  leaving  eight  children;  among  whom  the  most  remark- 
able are  the  Emperors  Joseph  II.  and  Leopold.  II. ;  the  Queen  of 
Naples,  Maria  Carolina,  and  the  Queen  of  France,  Marie  An- 
toinette. 

With  Maria  Theresa  the  house  of  Austria-Hapsburg  ceased ; 
and  the  present  dynasty  of  Austria-Lorraine  commenced. 

Possessed  of  great  beauty,  and  a  fine  person,  the  dignity  of  this 


M  A  E  I  A    T  H  E  11  E  S  A  .  343 

regal  woman's  manner  set  off  lier  liigli  rank,  and  gave  effect  to  lier 
distinguislied  mental  qualities-, 

Maria  Theresa  was  one  of  those  energetic,  active -tliouglited 
women,  Avhose  peculiar  cliaracteristics  co-exist  with  tlie  very  re- 
verse of  a  voluptuous  temperament.  She  had  none  of  the  weak- 
nesses incident  to  impassioned  or  sensuous  natures ;  but  at  the 
same  time  she  had  few  of  the  generous  impulses  or  warm  emotions 
which  "belong  to  more  ardent  spirits.  She  was  exempted  by  her 
own  inherent  disposition  from  falling  into  error ;  and  the  model  of 
virtue  that  she  presented  both  in  her  public  and  her  private  con- 
duct, was  a  constitutional  merit. 

Maria  Theresa  forms  a  striking  picture  of  an  Imperial  Woman 
of  Business. 


CATHERINE  II.  OF  RUSSIA. 

This  sovereign  may  be  cited  as  a  notorious  example  of  female 
coarseness.  Slie  was  essentially  a  woman  of  gross  appetites.  Her 
ambition  was  gross; — ^it  sickened  at  no  deed  however  violent, 
however  imscrupulous,  to  secm-e  its  object.  Her  love  of  glory  was 
gross ; — it  strove  at  achieving  showy  and  ostentatious  acts,  rather 
than  beneficial  ones  for  her  people.  Her  love  of  fame  was  gross  ; — ■ 
condescending  to  court  applause,  and  cajole  into  flattering  repre- 
sentation those  who  she  thought  would  be  the  chroniclers  of  her 
reign.  Her  love,  as  regarded  the  affections,  was  gross— since  it  con- 
sisted in  the  most  sensual  and  undisguised  preference  for  those 
men  distinguished  by  merely  handsome  persons :  and  her  love  of 
the  table  was  only  not  gross,  because  her  vanity  led  her  to  guard 
against  the  ill  effects  which  excess  in  eating  and  drinking  would 
have  upon  her  good  looks.  She  was  a  kind  of  female  Henry  the 
Eighth.  Like  him,  not  without  talent — even  great  talent;  but 
combined  with  so  large  a  preponderance  of  animal  propensity,  as 
to  make  the  intellectual  become  merged  in  the  physical  nature. 
The  nearest  approach  to  an  excuse  for  her  private  conduct,  is,  that 
in  reading  the  history  of  her  Kussian  predecessors,  we  perceive 
Catherine's  mode  of  life  to  be  no  worse  than  the  usual  course  pur- 
sued by  these  semi-barbarians;  where  swinish  indulgence  Avent 

44 


346  CATHERINE    II.    0  RUSSIA. 

hand  in  hand  witli  cost  and  luxury ;  where  the  only  idea  of  refine- 
ment was  expense  and  j^rofusion  ;  where  wallowing  in  all  kinds  of 
debauchery  was  held  to  he  the  height  of  regal  privilege;  and 
where  a  monarch  surnamed  "  the  great,"  used  to  chastise  those  who 
offended  him  with  blows,  and  administered  corporeal  punishment  to 
culprits  with  his  own  royal  hand,  striking  off  their  heads  or  inflict- 
ing the  knout,  as  the  case  might  he,  instead  of  the  headsman  or 
common  executioner.  He  not  only  struck  with  his  fist  courtiers, 
generals,  and  ministers,  who  committed  slight  faults ;  hut  when  the 
Archbishop  of  JSTovogorod,  the  primate  of  Kussia,  crossed  his  will 
on  one  occasion,  he  brought  him  to  obedience,  by  the  means  he 
used  to  any  of  his  subjects  who  displeased  him — hj  a  shower  of 
blows  from  a  stick. 

The  Empress  Elizabeth,  daughter  to  Peter  1.  and  sister  to 
Peter  II.,  named  as  her  successor  to  the  throne  of  Kussia,  her 
nephew,  the  young  Duke  of  Holstein  Gottorp,  who  afterwards 
reigned  as  Peter  III.  His  imperial  aunt  chose  him  a  consort  in 
the  person  of  Sophia  Augusta  von  Anhalt,  a  princess  possessed  of 
youth  and  prettiness  sufficient  to  attract  the  liking  of  the  imperial 
heir ;  and  after  changing  her  name  to  that  of  Gatherina  Alexiewna 
on  adopting  the  Greek  form  of  faith,  the  marriage  was  decided 
upon.  Catherine  was  about  one  year  younger  than  her  appointed 
husband;  born  at  Stettin,  on  the  25th  of  April,  1729.  She  was 
sixteen  years  of  age  when  married  to  the  Grand-duke  of  Eussia. 
But  before  the  nuptials  were  solemnized,  the  intended  bridegroom 
was  attacked  by  a  violent  fever,  which  terminated  in  malignant 
small-pox ;  and  when  he  recovered  from  the  malady,  it  had  so 
altered  and  disfigured  him,  that  he  was  hardly  recognizable. 
Catherine's  mother,  the  Princess  of  Zerbst- Anhalt,  an  intriguing  and 
aspiring  woman,  used  her  utmost  efforts  to  prepare  her  daughter 
for  the  change  in  her  lover's  appearance ;  and  this  precaution  not 


CATHERINE  II. 


RUSSIA. 


347 


only  enabled  Catherine  to  controiil  any  evidence  of  disgust,  but 
inspired  lier  witli  sufficient  courage  and  dissimulation  to  run 
towards  liim  and  express  her  joy,  on  first  seeing  him  after  liis 
restoration  to  health.  Courage  and  dissimulation  formed  a  part  of 
Catherine's  character.  She  never  wanted  for  boldness  in  emer- 
gency, or  for  power  of  concealing  her  real  feelings  under  an  appear- 
ance of  ease  and  cheerfulness.  On  the  present  occasion,  her  feign- 
ed delight  cost  her  so  great  an  effort,  that  on  reaching  her  own 
apartment  after  the  interview,  she  fell  down  in  a  swoon  that  lasted 
three  hours,  ere  she  recovered  from  her  state  of  insensibility. 

But  on  regaining  her  senses,  they  returned  to  her  in  their 
usual  condition  of  sharp  greed  and  blunted  delicacy.  She  mastered 
her  disinchnation  for  the  present  husband,  by  the  strength  of  her 
inclination  for  the  future  emperor,  and  the  marriage  was  celebrated. 
From  such  a  beginning,  what  could  ensue  but  unhappy  wedlock  ? — 
mutual  indifference;  mutual  neglect;  mutual  aversion.  He,  ill- 
educated,  ill-mannered,  and  of  intemperate  habits,  spent  his  time  in 
drinldng  and  revelry  with  boon  companions :  she,  sprightly,  well- 
informed,  speaking  several  languages  with  facility  and  elegance, 
fond  of  company,  amusement,  and  pleasure  :  he,  ashamed  and 
vexed  at  his  wife's  superiority  of  intelligence ;  she,  vexed  and 
ashamed  of  her  husband's  inferiority  to  herself.  In  a  court  like  that 
in  which  the  young  couple  lived,  there  were  not  wanting  those 
who  found  their  own  interests  in  fomenting  the  mutual  disagree- 
ment between  the  Grand-duke  and  Grand-duchess,  and  in  re- 
presenting it  disadvantageously  to  the  Empress-aunt ;  while  even 
those  who  were  swayed  by  honester  motives,  and  ventured  to  re- 
monstrate with  Elizabeth  on  the  ignorance  and  want  of  culture  in 
which  the  heir  to  her  throne  was  suffered  to  remain,  were  defeated  in 
their  attempts  to  effect  improvement.  Not  only  did  the  Grand- 
duke's  own  want  of  mental  capacity  with  degraded  tastes  and  hab- 


348 


CATHERINE  II. 


OF  RUSSIA 


its  militate  against  liis  advancement,  but  tlie  empress  felt  that 
strange  mixture  of  kindliness  and  jealousy  wliicli  is  frequently 
visible  in  reigning  sovereigns  towards  their  appointed  lieirs.  It  is 
said  that  one  of  these  honester  persons  about  the  court  (a  privi- 
leged tire-woman  of  the  empress)  dared  to  express  her  wonder 
that  her  imperial  mistress  should  not  allow  the  Grand-duke  to  at- 
tend the  council-board,  saying : — "  If  you  do  not  let  him  learn  any 
thing  of  that  which  he  ought  to  know  in  order  to  govern,  what  do 
you  think  will  become  of  him,  and  what  will  become  of  the  em- 
j)ire  ?  "  The  empress  made  no  other  reply  than  by  fixing  her  eyes 
angrily  upon  the  speaker,  with  the  words : — "  Johanna,  do  you 
know  where  Siberia  is  % " 

But  for  one  generous  partizan,  there  were  scores  of  insidious  ene- 
mies, who  asked  no  better  than  the  opportunities  afforded  by  his 
own  misconduct  for  injuring  the  Grand-duke  in  the  opinion  of  his 
imperial  aunt,  and  leading  his  young  wife  into  I'etaliation  of  neg- 
lect and  infidelity.  They  magnified  his  faults  in  repeating  them  to 
the  empress  ;  they  took  advantage  of  his  indifference  towards 
Catherine  to  seduce  her  from  him.  The  grand-chancellor,  Bestu- 
cheff,  was  his  chief  enemy,  politically,  and  strove  to  destroy  his 
favour  with  Elizabeth  ;  while  his  chamberlain,  SoltikoflP,  found 
means  to  supj^lant  him  in  the  good  graces  of  Catherine.  The  em- 
press had  bestowed  on  her  nephew,  on  the  occasion  of  his  marriage,  a 
small  palace  with  pleasure-grounds,  called  Oranienbaum ;  and  here 
the  Grand-duke  and  Duchess  held  their  little  court.  Here  it  was, 
that  in  idleness,  and  the  e"\dls  that  grow  out  of  idleness,  the  Grand- 
duke  lounged  away  his  time  ;  and  here  it  was,  that  partly  insti- 
gated by  the  intriguing  spirit  of  a  vicious  and  unscrupulous  mo- 
ther, and  partly  inspired  by  natural  inclination,  the  Grand-duchess 
began  her  career  of  gallantry  and  2:)olitical  manoeuvre,  pleasure, 
and  ambitious  plotting,  that  eventually  flourished  in  such  rampant 


CATHERINE  II. 


OF    11  U  S  S  I  A  . 


growth.  The  Princess  of  Zerbst-Anhalt  instilled  into  her  daughter 
precepts  of  circumspection  and  caution ;  and  set  her  the  example 
of  joining  craft  with  licence.  Having  awakened  suspicion  by  her 
trickery  and  diplomacy,  she  was  watched;  her  movements  nar- 
rowly observed:  she  had,  therefore,  some  difficulty  in  conveying 
her  communications  to  those  with  whom  she  was  in  correspond- 
ence, surrounded  as  she  was  by  vigilant  espial.  Being  at  one  of 
the  court  balls  at  Oranienbaum,  and  desiring  to  get  a  letter 
transmitted  to  her  brother  the  King  of  Sweden,  the  princess,  with 
her  daughter,  the  Grand-duchess,  approached  Lestocq,  who  was  a 
confidential  emissary ;  and,  as  he  stood  conversing  with  a  circle  of 
ladies,  the  Grand-duchess  threw  him  her  glove,  saying  she  would 
dance  with  him.  Lestocq  perceived  that  it  held  a  paper,  and  said 
with  a  ready  smile:— "I  accept  your  challenge,  madam;  but  in- 
stead of  returning  you  your  glove,  favour  me  with  its  fellow,  that 
I  may  present  them  both  to  my  wife ;  and  then  your  gracious  pres- 
ent will  be  complete  ;  "—and,  securing  the  gloves  within  his  vest, 
the  moment  the  dance  Avas  concluded,  the  adroit  courtier  quitted 
the  ball-room,  lest  the  empress  should  have  him  searched  before  he 
could  retire. 

Such  was  the  school  of  intrigue  in  which  Catherine  graduated ; 
an  apt  pupil,  she  became  an  accomplished  proficient  in  the  art,  and 
eventually  excelled  the  maternal  mistress  under  whose  professor- 
ship she  took  her  degrees.  The  Princess  of  Zerbst,  soon  after  this, 
received  an  imperial  order  to  leave  Eussia ;  but  the  seed  of  her 
instructions  remained  behind  to  reach  maturity  in  the  after-conduct 
of  her  daughter,  the  Grand-duchess. 

Catherine  beheld  her  mother  depart  with  regret ;  but  speedily 
a  round  of  entertainments  given  at  Oranienbaum,  by  the  contriv- 
ance of  the  young  chamberlain,  SoltikoflP,  who  suggested  them 
to  the  Grand-duke  for  the  behoof  of  the  Grand-duchess,  effaced 


350 


CATHERINE  II. 


OF  RUSSIA. 


all  thonglits  but  tliose  of  gaiety,  gallantry,  and  more  deep  designs 
beneatli  tlie  semblance  of  frivolous  pastime  and  festive  amusement. 

The  birth  of  a  son  (who  afterwards  reigned  as  Paul  1.)  brought 
little  change  of  sedateness  or  higher  moral  feeling  to  Catherine. 
She  cared  no  more  for  her  husband  now  than  she  had  ever  done  ; 
and  when  the  empress's  eyes  were  opened  to  the  scandal  of  the 
Grand-duchess's  too  great  favour  to  SoltikoflP,  and  that  Elizabeth 
had  sent  him  on  an  embassage  to  remove  him  from  Russia,  Cathe- 
rine rejDlaced  her  first  lover  by  a  second,  Count  Poniatowsky.  The 
chancellor,  Bestucheflf,  who  had  been  a  main  aorent  in  effectino- 
the  removal  of  Soltikoff,  lost  no  opportunity  of  conciliating  the 
good  graces  of  the  Grand-duchess,  by  favoring  her  partiality  for 
Poniatowsky;  and  he  prosecuted  his  schemes  against  the  Grand- 
duke,  by  strengthening  the  party  which  was  gradually  forming  it- 
self in  secret  around  the  Grand-duchess,  and  making  her  interests 
its  centre ;  but  a  counter-cabal  was  plotted  against  Bestucheflf,  which 
ended  in  his  disgrace,  and  the  appointment  of  Count  "Woronzoflf  to 
succeed  him  in  his  office  of  chancellor.  The  picture  of  court-cabals 
and  court-intrigues  in  this  Russian  history,  is  deplorable,— and 
revolting  as  deplorable  ; — but  it  aflfords  a  striking  instance  of  the 
unenviable  life  passed  amid  such  scenes.  While  one  party  schemed 
to  undermine  the  Grand-duke  in  the  favour  of  the  empress,  another 
vied  in  ministering  to  his  low  pleasures ;  and  he  himself  passed  his 
hours  in  aping  Frederick  the  Great,  dressing  up  the  soldiers  in  the 
Prussian  uniform,  mimicing  the  look,  tone,  and  manners  of  his  mili- 
tary idol ;  and  in  the  midst  of  his  drunken  rant,  vowing  that  he 
would  one  day  conquer  the  whole  North,  and  imitate  the  great 
Frederick  in  the  minutest  particular  himself,  while  making  all  his 
subjects  follow  in  the  same  track.  One  of  those  who  most  vilely 
flattered  the  Grand-duke's  coarse  tastes,  and  shared  in  his  boister- 
ous orgies,  was  Romano wna  Woronzoflf,  sister  to  the  chancellor  who 


CATHERINE    II.    OF    RUSSIA.  351 

had  succeeded  Bestiiclieff ;  wliile  tlie  Princess  Daschkoflf,  anotliet 
of  Woronzoffs  sisters,  attached  herself  to  the  party  of  the  Grand 
duchess,^ — planning  pastimes,  and  hatching  designs,  Avith  equal  zeal 
and  vivacity.  Meantime,  the  empress,  Elizabeth,  was  rapidly 
declining  in  health  ;  }3nt,  with  her  natural  indolence  joined  to  her 
loathsome  habits  of  excess,  she  neglected  state  aifairs,  and  thought 
only  of  balls,  feasts,  masquerades,  and  theatres,  eating  and  drink- 
ing, and  sleeping  off  the  effects  of  her  intemperance.  When  her 
illness  could  no  longer  be  mistaken,  and  her  danger  became  immi- 
nent, her  death-bed  was  made  a  scene  of  indecent  party-influence, 
and  hollow  mockery  of  the  nearest  relationships.  The  confessor 
of  the  empress  was  biassed  by  Count  Panino,  tutor  of  the  young 
Prince  Paul,  to  induce  the  dying  woman  to  affect  a  reconciliation 
with  her  nephew  and  his  wife,  in  order  that  the  interests  of  the 
boy-heir  might  not  be  prejudiced:  a  profession  of  esteem  and  at- 
tachment was  therefore  dictated  by  these  intriguers,  and  uttered  by 
Elizabeth  in  favour  of  two  people  kneeling  by  her  bedside  as  she  lay 
there  dying,  whom  she  had  long  held  in  contempt  and  dislike.  A 
lie  of  monstrous  and  glaring  flagrancy,  put  into  the  mouth  of  an 
expiring  sovereign  by  her  spiritual  director  at  the  instigation  of 
a  self-seeking  courtier,  in  presence  of  conniving  attendants,  and 
addressed  to  hypocritical  mourners  ! — a  more  abhorrent  picture  of 
court  depravity  could  hardly  be  adduced.  A  biographer  of  this 
empress,  Elizabeth,  sums  up  her  character  in  these  pithy  words  : — ■ 
"I-Ier  devotions  often  rendered  her  impious,  and  her  clemency 
cruel."  He  adds  in  illustration,  that  "  she  had  made  a  vow  not  to 
permit  any  sentence  of  death  to  be  executed  during  her  reign ;  and 
the  judges,  therefore,  who  could  not  have  criminals  beheaded,  caused 
them  to  perish  by  the  barbarous  torture  of  the  knout.  Moreover, 
never  were  there  more  tongues  cut  out,  or  more  wretches  exiled  to 
Siberia,  than  beneath  the  sway  of  this  princess,  so  unworthily  sur- 


352 


CATHERINE    II.    01*^  RUSSIA. 


named,  '  the  clement.'  Two  anecdotes  suffice  to  cliaracterize  her 
Observing  tliat  one  of  tlie  court-ladies  assisting  at  lier  toilette  was 
in  pain,  slie  asked  lier  tlie  reason  :  '  My  legs  are  mucli  swelled,' 
answered  the  lady.  '  Well,  then,'  replied  Elizabeth,  '  lean  against 
that  bureau,  and  I  will  pretend  not  to  see  you.'  She  never  per- 
mitted the  ladies  of  the  court  to  wear  the  same  fashions  and  materi- 
als as  herself;  to  adopt  them  they  must  wait  until  she  had  done  with 
them.  It  is  true,  indeed,  that  she  changed  them  frequently  ;  for  at 
her  death,  were  found  in  her  wardrobe  thirty  thousand  dresses." 

On  the  demise  of  the  Empress  Elizabeth,  the  Grand-duke 
ascended  the  throne  as  Peter  III.,  and  at  first  showed  very  differ- 
ently in  his  new  character  of  emperor  from  what  he  had  done  as 
heir  to  the  crown.  He  showed  himself  just,  forbearing,  and  bene- 
volent. He  treated  his  wife  w^ith  consideration  and  respect;  he 
beha\"ed  with  generosity  to  those  who  had  been  friendly  to  his 
cause,  and  with  almost  magnanimity  towards  those  who  had  been 
inimical  to  him.  He  recalled  from  Siberia  several  of  those  who 
had  been  tyrannously  banished  thither  ;  and  the  people,  in  conse- 
quence of  these  auspicious  omens,  hailed  with  enthusiasm  this 
earnest  of  excellence  in  their  new  ruler.  But  this  fit  of  good  con- 
duct was  as  transient  as  it  was  sudden :  he  fell  back  into  his  old 
habits  ; — he  ceased  to  treat  his  wife  with  decent  regard ;  he  passed 
his  days  in  debauchery  with  his  riotous  companions,  paid  public 
attentions  to  Eomanowna,  Countess  of  Woronzoff,  while  openly 
slighting  Catherine ;  played  off  his  absurd  baboonery  of  Frederick 
the  Great ;  and  lastly, — to  crown  his  delinquencies  in  the  eyes  of  his 
subjects, — he  made  no  secret  of  preferring  the  Lutheran  to  the 
Greek  church.  He  lost  his  popularity  in  proportion  as  he  thus 
affronted  the  predilections  of  his  subjects  ; — he  even  went  so  far  as 
to  risk  offending  them,  by  devising  a  plan  to  repudiate  his  wife 
Catherine ;  declaring  her  son,  Prince  Paul,  to  be  illegitimate ;  and, 


CATHERINE  II. 


OF  RUSSIA. 


353 


after  effecting  tlie  divorce  and  disgrace  of  tlie  motlier,  creating  his 
mistress,  Eomanowna,  empress  in  lier  stead.  His  only  demur  to 
tlie  sclieme  was,  as  to  whom  he  should  appoint  for  his  successor  in 
lieu  of  the  young  prince,  Paul.  When  the  previous  empress, 
Elizabeth,  had  been  placed  on  the  throne  of  Russia,  Ivan,  son  to  a 
niece  of  the  empress,  Anne,  had  been  deprived  of  his  appointed  in- 
heritance to  make  way  for  Elizabeth's  accession :  since  when,  this 
unfortunate  prince  had  languished  in  a  prison-dungeon.  Peter  III. 
thought  of  Ivan  for  his  successor ;  he  determined,  therefore,  to 
repair  to  the  fortress  of  Schlusselburg ;  where,  in  a  secret  interview, 
unannounced  and  unknown,  he  might  judge  of  the  prisoner's  fitness 
for  the  post  to  which  he  destined  him.  This  melo-dramatic  inter- 
view actually  took  place ;  and  the  Prince  Ivan's  behaviour  was 
such  as  to  afford  no  reason  that  should  induce  the  emperor  to  altei- 
his  intentions  with  regard  to  him  ;  nevertheless,  he  took  no  active 
steps  to  fulfil  them,— having  neither  the  mental  resources,  nor  the 
courage  for  carrying  out  such  an  enterprise  against  a  woman  of 
such  talent  as  he  knew  his  wife  to  possess.  - 

But  although  these  intentions  of  Peter  III.  were  neither  exe- 
cuted nor  known  in  their  fuU  extent  to  Catherine,  their  scope  was 
sufficiently  suspected  to  render  her  eager  to  frame  some  plan  by 
M^hich  she  might  take  advantage  of  the  animosity  they  would  gene- 
rate against  her  husband,  and  the  interest  they  would  inspire 
towards  herself  and  son,  so  as  to  effect  a  decided  movement  in  her 
favour.  Living  retired  at  the  palace  of  Peterhof,  she  had  leisure 
not  only  to  devise  schemes  and  conspii-acies,  but  to  replace  Ponia- 
towsky  by  a  new  favourite,— Gregory  Orloff  This  young  officer  was 
not  only  a  gaBant  peculiarly  suited  to  the  taste  of  the  imperial 
she-libertine,  but  he  was  a  valuable  confederate  in  the  plot  that 
Catherine  was  now  designing  in  combination  with  the  Princess 
Daschkoff ;  whose  spirit  of  intrigue  and  general  cleverness  render- 
45 


854 


CATHERINE  II. 


0  1^'  RUSSIA. 


ed  her  a  most  active  assistant  in  tlie  secret  project  for  detlironing 
Peter  III.,  and  causing  Catherine  to  be  constituted  empress  in  his 
stead.  Under  pretence  of  literary  pursuits,  and  other  elegant 
amusements  enjoyed  together  in  the  retirement  of  Peterhof,  and  in 
correspondence  by  letter,  when  the  princess  occasionally  repaired 
to  Petersburg  in  order  the  more  effectually  to  prosecute  their  con- 
certed plans,  Catherine  and  this  lady  carried  on  the  conspiracy, 
aided  by  Orloff  and  his  brothers ;  with  Bibikoft^  Odart,  Panino, 
Razoumoffsky,  Wolkousky,  the  Archbishop  of  Novogorod,  Gleboff, 
and  others ;  and  only  waited  for  a  favourable  oj^portunity  to  put 
their  designs  in  execution.  The  members  of  the  confederacy 
differed  in  their  several  views  respecting  the  plot  in  its  ultimate 
result,  as  they  did  in  the  measures  most  advisable  for  its  carrying 
out.  Catherine,  and  a  few  of  her  more  devoted  partizans,  were  for 
placing  her  on  the  throne  as  empress  :  others, — Panino  chiefly, — 
were  for  appointing  her  regent  during  the  minority  of  her  son, 
Prince  Paul.  With  regard  to  the  manner  of  conducting  the  revolt, 
there  were  also  differing  opinions :  some  were  for  awaiting  the 
celebration  of  the  festival  of  St.  Peter  at  the  Palace  of  Peterhof, 
which  always  occasioned  a  vast  assemblage  of  maskers  and  revel- 
lers there :  and  the  emperor's  person  might  be  secured  during  one  of 
the  orgies  sure  to  form  part  of  the  entertainment  when  he  arrived. 
Others  counselled  more  direct  and  open  violence.  Lieutenant 
Passeck, — a  ferocious  soldier  and  savage, — proposed  stabbing  him 
in  the  midst  of  his  court ;  and  he  sta,tioned  himself  with  one  of  his 
comrades  in  ambuscade  during  two  whole  days,  with  the  intention 
of  surprising  the  czar  as  he  passed  ;  but  it  so  chanced  that  Peter 
did  not  come  as  expected.  By  means  of  Orloff  and  his  brothers, 
some  regiments  of  the  troops  were  gained  over ;  and  through  the 
medium  of  a  borrowed  sum  of  money,  Catherine  bought  over  other 


CATHERINE  II. 


OF  RUSSIA 


355. 


of  tlie  soldiery,  seeing  that  it  wasgieatly  essential  that  the  military 
should  be  on  her  side  when  the  outbreak  came. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  czar  was  preparing,  on  his  part,  a  scheme 
which  only  awaited  the  celebration  of  the  festival  of  his  namesake 
saint  for  execution.  He  intended  an  expedition  against  Denmark,  for 
which  the  Enssian  fleet  was  equipped  and  lay  ready,  partly  at  Cron- 
stadt,  partly  at  KeveL;  while  the  regiments  that  were  to  accompany 
him  by  land,  were  already  assembling  in  Pomerania.  The  invasion 
of  Holstein  was  one  of  his  objects ;  and  a  visit  to  his  idol  and  model, 
the  King  of  Prussia,  formed  a  scarcely  less  important  one.  During 
his  absence,  the  arrest  of  Catherine  was  to  take  place,  as  the  first 
step  to  her  repudiation ;  but  she  trusted  that  she  might  anticipate 
him  in  this  plan,  by  her  own.    All  now  wanting,  was  opportunity, 
and  that  was  not  slow  in  presenting  itself.    An  inadvertence  at 
Petersburg,  had  nearly  occasioned  the  discovery  there  of  the  con- 
spiracy that  was  brewing ;  and  this  incident  hastened  its  crisis. 
On  the  Princess  Daschkoff's  learning  from  one  of  her  spies  what 
had  chanced,  she  dressed  herself  in  men's  clothes,  went  out  to 
meet  the  chief  conspirators,  decided  with  them  that  it  was  best 
not  to  wait  till  morning,  but  to  take  advantage  of  the  silence 
and  darkness  of  the  night  then  setting  in:— while,  therefore, 
Gregory  Orloff  and  Bibikoff  went  to  the  barracks  to  prepare  the 
soldiers  to  act  at  the  first  given  signal,  Alexius  Orloff  undertook  to 
bring  Catherine  from  Peterhof. 

Under  pretext  of  leaving  the  principal  apartments  free  for  the 
approaching  festival  to  be  held  here  ;  but,  in  fact,  to  be  the  better 
ready  for  getting  away,  Catherine  had  established  herself  in  a 
small  summer-house,  situated  at  the  extremity  of  the  garden- 
grounds,  on  the  banks  of  the  gulf  of  Finland  ;  where  a  small  vessel 
lay  at  hand,  serving  for  clandestine  visits  from  her  gallants,  and 


356 


CATHERINE  II. 


0  1    E  U  S  S I  A . 


for  means  of  escape  to  Sweden,  should  tlie  conspiracy  Ibe  discovered. 
It  is  said,  (and  the  anecdote  is  related  as  having  been  told  by  her- 
self,) that  happening  to  walk  through  these  grounds  on  the  eve  of 
the  insurrection,  Catherine  perceived  a  seedling  oak  growing 
there,  and  being  struck  by  thus  meeting  with  a  species  of  tree 
somewhat  rare  in  that  country,  she  had  it  enclosed  and  preserved. 
Subsequently,  growing  into  a  fine  tree,  Catherine  took  pleasure  in 
regarding  it  as  an  emblem  of  her  reign. 

Alexius  Orloff  had  been  supplied  by  his  brother  Gregory  with 
the  key  of  the  summer-house,  and  with  instruction  how  to  find  his 
way  to  the  spot ;  while  the  Princess  Daschkoff  had  given  him  a 
note,  urging  "the  empress  to  accompany  him,  without  delay,  to 
Petersburg. 

It  was  two  hours  past  midnight ; — the  empress  expecting  no 
farther  intelligence,  had  retired  to  rest,  and  was  fast  asleep,  when 
she  felt  herself  abruptly  aroused,  and  saw  standing  by  her  bed  a 
soldier  whom  she  did  not  recognize,  who  said  hastily : — "  Your 
majesty  has  not  a  moment  to  lose  ;  be  pleased  to  be  prepared  to  go 
with  me," — and  hurried  out.  Catherine,  bewildered,  called  to  her 
confidential  attendant,  Iwanowna,  who  assisted  her  mistress  to  rise 
and  dress  ;  and  both  disguised  themselves  so  as  to  pass  the  sen- 
tinels without  being  recognized.  They  were  no  sooner  thus  equip- 
ped, than  the  soldier,  re-entering,  conducted  them  to  a  coach  that 
the  Princess  Daschkoff  had  kept  in  waiting  for  some  days  at  a 
place  not  far  distant.  For  some  time  all  went  well ;  but  about 
half  way,  the  horses  being  worn  out,  stopped  short.  The  empress 
descended  from  the  coach,  expressing  her  readiness  to  proceed  on 
foot;  but,  fortunately,  they  overtook  a  peasant's  cart;  and  in 
this,  exhausted  with  fatigue  and  anxiety,  but  sufficiently  mistress 
of  herself  to  assume  an  air  of  composure,  and  even  cheerfulness, 
Catherine  arrived  in  the  capital  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning. 


CATHEHINE  II 


OF  RUSSIA. 


357 


Slie  went  straight  to  the  soldiers'  quarters,  where  those  regi- 
ments ah^eady  gained  over,  Avere  stationed ;  bnt  whom  the  con- 
spirators had  not  permitted  to  tnru  out  until  her  appearance,  lest 
any  act  of  precipitancy  sljould  cause  failure.  On  the  report  of  her 
arrival,  some  score  of  half-dressed  guards  ran  out  and  received  her 
with  shouts  of  joy.  Surj)rised  and  alarmed  to  see  so  small  a  num- 
ber of  the  soldiery,  she  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  but  recover- 
ing herself,  she  told  them  that  imminent  peril  had  forced  her  to 
come  and  seek  their  help  :  that  the  czar  intended  that  very  night 
to  kill  her  and  her  son ;  that  she  had  only  avoided  death  by  flight, 
and  that  she  trusted  sufficiently  to  their  good  will,  to  place  herself 
in  their  hands."  Those  who  heard  her  flamed  with  indignation, 
and  swore  to  die  in  her  defence.  Their  example,  and  that  of  their 
colonel,  Bazoumoffsky,  soon  incited  the  rest  of  the  soldiery,  who 
now  ponred  in  crowds  round  Catherine ;  and  they  all  with  one 
voice  proclaimed  her  for  their  sovereign.  The  chaplain  of  the 
regiment  was  summoned;  and  he  received,  upon  a  crucifix,  the 
oath  of  allegiance  from  the  troops.  Some  few  voices  amid  the  tu- 
mult proclaimed  Catherine  regent ;  but  they  were  soon  quelled  by 
the  menaces  of  OrlofP,  and  drowned  by  the  more  numerous  cries  of 
"  Long  live  the  Empress  !  " 

A  couple  of  hours'  time  sufficed  to  see  Catherine  surrounded 
by  two  thousand  of  the  military,  and  a  large  portion  of  the  popu- 
lace of  St.  Petersburg,  who  mechanically  followed  the  movements 
of  the  soldiery.  This  numerous  concourse  escorted  her  through 
the  streets, — where  the  windows  and  door-ways  were  thronged 
with  spectators,  mingling  their  welcoming  acclamations  with  the 
shouts  of  the  soldiers, — ^to  the  church  ;  and  there  the  archbishop 
of  Novogorod,  attired  in  his  sacerdotal  robes,  and  attended  by  a 
large  body  of  the  priesthood, — their  long  beards  and  flowing  white 
hair  in  picturesque   contrast  with  the  assembled  multitude,— 


358 


CATHERINE    II.    OF    11  U  S  S  I  A . 


awaited  her  at  tLe  altar.  Tlie  primate  placed  the  imperial  crown 
upon  her  head,  and,  with  a  loud  voice,  proclaimed  her  sovereign 
of  all  the  Russias,  under  the  name  of  Catherine  II. ;  at  the  same 
time  declaring  the  young  Grand-duke,  Paul,  as  her  successor.  Te 
Deum  was  then  chanted,  accompanied  by  the  applauses  of  the  mul- 
titude. After  this  ceremony,  the  empress  repaired  to  the  palace 
formerly  occupied  hj  Elizabeth;  when  the  doors  being  thrown 
open  to  all  who  chose  to  enter,  during  many  hours  the  populace 
poured  in,  falling  on  their  knees,  and  tendering  their  vov»^s  of 
loyalty  and  obedience  to  their  sovereign  and  empress,  Catherine. 
Meanwhile,  the  conspirators  were  not  inert; — they  visited  every 
quarter  of  the  metropolis,  establishing  guard,  and  keeping  cannon 
ready  appointed,  encountering  but  little  opposition.  Prince 
George  of  Holstein,  the  czar's  uncle,  on  offering  some  show  of  re- 
sistance, was  instantly  arrested,  and  conveyed  to  prison.  One  sin- 
gle man,  named  Bressan,  who  owed  his  fortune  to  the  emperor, 
dared  to  prove  his  gratitude  and  fidelity.  He  dressed  up  one  of 
his  servants  as  a  peasant,  and  despatched  him  with  a  note  to  the 
emperor,  who  had  left  Oranienbaum  for  Peterhof. 

On  arriving  at  the  palace,  Catherine  had  immediately  sent  a 
detachment  of  soldiers  for  her  son,  Paul.  The  young  prince  was 
seized  with  a  panic  at  the  sight  of  so  many  armed  men ;  for  he  had 
often  been  told  of  the  designs  which  the  czar,  his  father,  had 
formed  agahist  him ;  but  Count  Panino,  his  tutor,  took  the  child  in 
his  arms,  and  conveyed  him  to  his  mother.  She  carried  him  with 
her  into  the  balcony,  raising  him  up  in  view  of  the  people,  who  re- 
doubled their  acclamations  at  the  sight.  The  nobles,  finding  how 
the  current  of  public  feeling  ran,  were  not  slow  in  following  its 
direction : — ^they  also  came,  in  the  course  of  the  day,  to  tender  their 
homage  to  the  empress.  Towards  noon,  she  put  forth  a  manifesto, 
which  was  distributed  throughout  the  metropolis  ;  and  placed  in  the 


•  J 


CATHERINE    II.    OF  RUSSIA. 


359 


Lands  of  all  the  foreign  ministers.  It  is  recorded,  that  the  conspi- 
rator, Odart,  who  had  been  entrusted  with  the  secret  printing  of 
this  document,  and  had  kept  it  by  him  during  some  days,  ex- 
claimed on  the  morrow  of  the  revolution : — "  Heaven  be  thanked ! 
I'm  quit  of  the  fear  of  being  broken  on  the  wheel ! "  During  the 
distribiition  of  the  manifesto,  Catherine  dressed  herself  in  the  uni- 
form of  the  guards,  borrowing  the  suit  of  a  young  officer,  named 
Talizin.  She  wore  the  order  of  St.  Andrew ;  mounted  on  horse- 
back, and  went,  accompanied  by  the  Princess  Daschkoff  (who  also 
was  equipped  in  regimentals)  to  review  the  ranks.  It  was  on  this 
occasion  that  Potemkin,  then  a  young  cavalry  ensign,  perceiving 
that  Catherine  had  no  sword-knot,  advanced  to  offer  her  his.  The 
horse  he  rode,  accustomed  to  military  evolutions,  and  to  form 
in  line,  was  some  time  ere  it  would  retreat  from  beside  the  charger 
on  which  the  empress  sat ;  so  that  she  had  leisure  to  remark  the  grace 
and  address  of  him  who,  at  a  subsequent  period,  gained  so  great 
an  ascendancy  over  her.  The  troops,  well  charged  with  beer  and 
brandy,  and  won  by  her  imperial  majesty's  gracious  conduct,  were 
uproarious  in  their  demonstrations  of  attachment, — their  enthusiasm 
reaching  its  chmax  upon  her  dining  near  to  an  open  window, 
within  view  of  the  soldiery  and  a  multitude  of  gazers  assembled  in 
the  principal  square. 

As  yet  Peter  III.  knew  nothing  of  what  was  passing ;  but  the 
disguised  emissary,  sent  by  Bressan,  brought  the  fatal  news,  and 
spread  dismay  amid  the  little  band  of  profligates  that,  as  usual, 
were  immediately  about  the  person  of  the  dissolute  czar.  The 
chancellor,  Woronzofl?,  proposed  going  to  Petersburg  to  parley 
with  the  empress,  and  induce  her  to  return  to  her  allegiance. 
The  emperor  accepted  the  proposal ;  but,  on  the  chancellor's  arri- 
val in  the  capital,  Catharine  received  him  with  a  quiet  smile,  and 
said  :— "  You  see  ;  it  is  not  I  who  act ;  I  yield  but  to  the  nation's 


360 


CATHERINE  II. 


OF  RUSSIA. 


desire."  The  pliant  chancellor,  who  had  sold  his  sister's  honour, 
and  could  care  little  for  his  own,  towed  to  the  necessity,  and  inge- 
niously suggested  his  l^eing  placed  under  guard :  thus,  by  a  neat 
contrivance,  securing  his  own  safety  from  Catherine's  partizans, 
and  sheltering  himself  from  the  czar's  inevitable  suspicions. 

In  the  evening,  Catherine  again  mounted  on  horseback ;  and 
with  a  drawn  sword  in  her  hand,  and  a  wreath  of  oak  round  her 
head,  she  prepared  to  lead  her  troops,  who  were  marshalling  into 
order  for  march;  while  Princess  Daschkoff  and  Colonel  Kazou- 
moffsky  attended  at  her  side.  A  crowd  of  courtiers  thronged 
around  her ;  and  all  vied  in  manifesting  their  eagerness  to  share 
her  dangers  and  swell  her  triumph.  She  halted  at  the  head  of  her 
army,  in  a  little  village,  about  seven  versts  from  Petersburg; 
and  here  she  entered  a  cottage,  where  she  slept  for  some  hours  on 
a  heap  of  military  cloaks,  which  the  officers  who  formed  her  escort 
piled  up  to  make  a  couch  for  her.  From  first  to  last,  in  short,  of 
that  eventful  day^  she  enacted  to  perfection  the  part  of  a  revolu- 
tionary heroine  ;  and  she  secured  the  reward  she  had  in  view — ■ 
firm  and  sole  possession,  thenceforth,  of  imperial  dignity. 

Peter  III.,  despoiled  of  power,  and  deprived  of  respect  by  his 
pusillanimous  conduct  and  total  want  of  decision  or  dignity,  sank 
into  a  mere  neo:ation.  He  was  made  to  sign  a  deed  of  renuncia- 
tion ;  and  was  conducted  to  a  small  country-house,  belonging  to 
Razoumoflfsky,  where  he  was  kept  under  strict  guard.  He  had  not 
been  in  this  retired  spot  more  than  six  days,  when  Alexis  OrloflP, 
and  a  ruffian  named  Teploff,  came  into  his  apartment,  and  told  him 
that  the  object  of  their  visit  was  to  announce  his  speedy  deliver- 
ance ;  at  the  same  time  inviting  themselves  to  dine  with  him.  Ac- 
cording to  the  Russian  custom,  glasses  and  brandy  were  brought 
in  ;  and  while  Teploff  held  the  czar  in  talk,  Orloff  filled  the  glasses 
witli  liquor,  and  dropped  into  one  of  them  a  poison  furnished  by  a 


CATHERINE    II.    OF    E  U  S  S  I  A . 

court-pliysician  of  infamous  memoiy,  named  Croiisse.  The  czar, 
suspecting  nothing,  took  the  draught  and  swallowed  it ;  but  was 
immediately  seized  with  such  racking  pains,  that  the  whole  truth 
rushed  upon  him,  and  he  vehemently  taxed  Orloff  with  his  foul 
deed,  uttering  loud  cries  for  help.  One  of  his  valets  ran  to  his  as- 
sistance ;  but  the  man  was  quickly  compelled  to  leave  the  room, 
while  Baratinsky,  who  was  captain  of  the  guard  on  duty  there, 
came  in  during  the  scuffle  that  ensued.  Alexis  Orlolf,  who  had 
flung  the  czar  on  the  ground,  knelt  upon  his  breast,  and  with  one 
powerful  hand  grasped  his  throat,  while  with  the  other  he  pressed 
in  the  skull.  Baratinsky  and  Teploff  passed  a  handkerchief  round 
his  throat,  and  drew  it  tight  with  a  slip-knot.  Peter,  in  struggling, 
inflicted  a  severe  scratch  on  the  face  of  Baratinsky,  of  which  the 
traitor  long  bore  the  mark;  but  the  wretched  czar's  strength 
quickly  gave  way,  and  the  murderers  finished  their  A^ork  of  stran- 
gulation. 

A  sudden  attack  of  mortal  illness  was  publicly  announced  as  the 
cause  of  Peter  III.'s  death ;  and  Catherine's  behaviour,  on  the  oc- 
casion, was  marked  by  a  prudence  and  self-possession  which  did 
greater  honour  to  her  powers  of  dissimulation  than  to  her  moral  or 
natural  feeling.  She  played  her  ]Dart  to  admiration — such  as  it 
was.  After  Alexis  Orloff  brought  her  the  news,  she  dined  in  pub- 
lic as  nsual ;  held  her  court  in  the  evening  with  the  utmost  gaiety ; 
and  next  day — causing  the  tidings  to  be  announced  to  her  while 
she  was  at  table — she  rose  and  retu^ed,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
Certes,  of  such  a  woman's  weeping,  might  be  added  Avhat  Shake- 
speare's Antony  says  of  the  crocodile  : — "  And  the  tears  of  it  are 
wet." 

Catherine  had  a  strong  idea  of  the  value  of  keeping  up  appear- 
ances ;  she  neglected  nothing  that  might  tell  well,  that  might  gain 
her  credit,  and  make  her  pass  for  one  wlio  deserved  the  prosperity 
46 


4 


3(32  C  A  T  H  E  R  I  N  E    I  1 .    0  F    II  U  S  S  I  A . 

that  attenaed  her.  She  knew  the  advantage  of  seeming  holy, — of 
"  assuming  a  virtue  if  she  had  it  not ;  "  and  she,  accordingly,  among 
other  convenient  simulations,  could  put  on  a  cloak  of  piety  when 
she  thought  it  requisite  to  have  a  regard  for  religion.  For  instance, 
at  the  period  of  the  Empress  Elizabeth's  death,  she  courted  popu- 
lar admiration  by  frequenting  the  churches  where  prayers  for  the 
the  imperial  restoration  to  health  were  being  offered  up,  although 
at  other  times  not  being  eminent  for  religious  observance.  And 
on  her  first  accession  to  the  throne,  she  paid  a  sedulous  deference 
to  the  cli<?nitaries  of  the  church,  which  she  knew  would  win  her 
the  affections  of  her  people,  but  which  her  subsequent  conduct  to 
the  clergy  little  bore  out.  Her  want  of  gratitude  to  the  Princess 
Daschkoff— who,  however  flighty  and  vain  her  motives  might 
have  been  in  aiding  the  conspiracy,  was  still  serviceable  to  Cathe- 
rine in  her  zeal  throughout  the  affair — was  consistent  with  the  rest 
of  her  heartless  conduct.  Once  securely  established  in  her  impe- 
rial seat,  she  disregarded  all  the  princess's  claims  to  notice  and  re- 
compense ;  and  upon  Madame  Daschkoff 's  requesting — with  the 
liveliness  of  her  character  and  years  (she  was  not  much  more 
than  eighteen) — the  colonelcy  of  a  regiment  of  guards,  as  her  re- 
ward ;  Catherine  replied,  smiling  ironically,  that  she  "  would  figure 
better  in  an  Academy  of  Letters  than  in  a  military  post."  The 
princess,  deeply  hurt  at  this  retort — which  reflected  upon  her  lite- 
rary pretensions — could  not  conceal  her  mortification ;  with  her 
native  impetuosity,  therefore,  she  spoke  loudly  among  her  friends 
of  Catherine's  ingratitude.  This  was  reported  to  the  empress, 
who  forthwith  ordered  her  to  retire  to  Moscow. 

Nevertheless^  Catherine's  private  character,  however  little 
worthy  of  regard,  should  not  be  allowed  to  act  so  far  prejudicially, 
as  to  cause  her  being  denied  the  merits  which  were  undoubtedly 
hers.    She  was  a  cle\-er-headed  woman,  with  very  little  conscience, 


CATHERINE  II 


OF  RUSSIA. 


363 


and  no  heart.  Slie  was  shrewd  in  perception,  astute  in  judgment, 
and  hard  in  principle.  It  was  a  maxim  with  her,  to  be  steadfast 
in  adherence  to  design.  She  held  this  as  a  rule :— It  is  rec[msite 
to  observe  constancy  in  projects.  Better  do  ill  than  change  a  re- 
solution.   Fools  only  are  undecided." 

The  reign  of  such  a  woman  as  Catherine,  was  felt  to  be  greatly 
more  important  for  Russia  and  for  Europe,  than  that  of  the  feeble- 
minded debauchee  who  had  preceded  her  on  the  throne  :  and  not 
only  her  subjects,  but  the  other  powers  of  the  Continent  soon  be- 
came aware  of  her  consequence  as  a  sovereign.  She  knew  how  to 
make  herself  looked  up  to, — if  not  with  respect  and  liking,  at  least 
with  deference.  Frederick  the  Great,  of  Prussia,  Maria  Theresa, 
of  Austria,  Louis  XV.,  of  France,  and  the  cabinet  of  George  III., 
of  England,  each,  in  turn,  learned  to  regard  with  attention  the 
acts  of  Catherine  II.,  of  Eussia.  In  Poland  she  exercised  long 
dictatorship.  Her  favourite,  Poniatowsky,  had  been  appointed  to 
the  Polish  throne,  and  reigned  under  the  title  of  Stanislaus  Augus- 
tus ;  while  frequent  appeals  to  the  Russian  court  from  the  king 
and  senate  of  Warsaw,  placed  this  unhappy  country  almost  in 
vassalage  to  her  power,  until  1772,  when  Catherine  II.,  Frederick 
II.,  and  Joseph  II.,  agreed  upon  the  inter-partition  of  Poland.  In 
1785,  the  long-continued  war  between  Russia  and  Turkey,  ended 
in  the  Crimea  becoming  a  province  of  the  Russian  empire ;  and  in 
IT 87,  Catherine  made  a  progress  to  visit  this  addition  to  her  do- 
minions. Her  journey  was  like  one  grand  triumphal  procession  the 
whole  of  the  way.  Palaces,  like  that  of  Aladdin  in  the  Eastern 
tale,  sprang  up  to  receive  her  when  she  halted ;  villages  arose,  like 
magic,  in  the  most  desert  spots ;  whole  populations  crowded  the 
banks  of  rivers,  where  a  week  before  all  was  solitude  and  desola- 
tion ;  herds  and  flocks  grazed  in  meadows  that  previously  pre- 
sented no  trace  of  living  creature  :  but  hke  the  pageants  at  a  thea- 


364 


CATHERINE    II.    OF  RUSSIA. 


tre,  as  the  scene  sliifted,  so  did  its  occupants  make  tlieir  exit,  but 
to  re-apjDear  in  endless  numbers.  To  please  the  eye  of  the  Russian 
empress,  and  to  give  her  an  idea  of  smiling  abundance,  this  show 
Avas  got  u-p  ;  with  just  such  a  glittering  falsehood  as  the  palace  of 
ice,  erected  to  gratify  the  caj)rice  of  one  of  her  predecessors,  the 
Empress  Anne,  daughter  of  Peter  the  Great.  The  reader  will  not 
decline  a  reminder  of  the  poet  Cowper's  graceful  description  of 
the  Imperial  "  Folly." 

"  Less  worthy  of  applause,  tliough  more  admir'd, 
Because  a  novelty,  the  work  of  man, 
Imperial  mistress  of  the  fur-clad  Russ, 
Thy  most  magnificent  and  mighty  freak, 
<  The  wonder  of  the  North.    No  forest  fell 

When  thou  wouldst  tuild;  no  quarry  sent  its  stores 

T'  enrich  thy  walls  ;  but  tliou  didst  hew  the  floods, 

And  make  thy  marble  of  the  glassy  wave. 

In  such  a  palace  Aristseus  found 

Gyrene,  when  he  bore  the  plaintive  tale 

Of  his  lost  bees  to  her  maternal  ear  : 

In  such  a  palace  Poetry  might  place 

The  armoury  of  Winter  ;  where  his  troops 

The  gloomy  clouds,  find. weapons,  arrowy  sleet, 

Skin-piercing  volley,  blossom-bruising  hail, 

And  snow,  that  often  blinds  the  trav'ller's  course, 

And  wraps  him  in  an  unexpected  tomb. 

Silently  as  a  dream  the  fabric  rose ; 

No  sound  of  hammer  or  of  saw  was  there  : 

Ice  upon  ice,  the  well-adjusted  parts 

Were  soon  conjoin'd,  nor  other  cement  ask'd 

Than  water  interfus'd  to  make  them  one. 

Lamps  gracefully  dispos'd,  and  of  all  hues, 

Illumin'd  every  side  :  a  .wat'ry  light 

Gleam'd  through  the  clear  transparency,  that  seem'd 

Another  moon  new  risen,  or  meteor  fall'n 

From  heav'n  to  earth,  of  lambent  flame  serene. 

So  stood  the  brittle  prodigy  ;  though  smooth 

And  slippery  the  materials,  yet  frost-bound 

Firm  as  a  rock.    Nor  wanted  aught  within, 


C  A  T  n  E  11  I  N  E  II. 


OF  RUSSIA. 


365 


That  royal  residence  might  well  befit, 
For  grandeur  or  for  use.    Long  wavy  wreaths 
Of  flow'rs,  that  fear'd  no  enemy  but  warmth, 
Blush'd  on  the  pannels.    Mirror  needed  none 
Where  all  was  vitreous  ;  but  in  order  due, 
Convivial  table  and  commodious  seat 
(What  seem'd,  at  least,  commodious  seat)  were  there  ; 
Sofa  and  couch,  and  high-built  throne  august. 
The  same  lubricity  was  found  in  all, 
And  all  was  moist  to  the  warm  touch  ;  a  scene 
Of  evanescent  glory,  once  a  stream. 
And  soon  to  slide  into  a  stream  again. 
Alas  !  'twas  but  a  mortifying  stroke 
Of  undesign'd  severity,  that  glanc'd 
(Made  by  a  monarch)  on  her  own  estate,        •  . 
On  human  grandeur  and  the  courts  of  kings. 
'Twas  transient  in  its  nature,  as  in  show 
'Twas  durable ;  as  worthless,  as  it  seem'd 
Intrinsically  precious  ;  to  the  foot 
Treacherous  and  false  ;  it  smil'd,  and  it  was  cold. 
Great  princes  have  great  playthings." 

So,  for  Catlierine  ;  this  pretty  plaything  of  simulated  villages, 
and  pretended  flourishing  peasantries,  and  supposed  prospermg 
farms,  was  brought  together  for  her  entertainment.  An  emperor 
(Joseph  11.  of  Austria)  met  her,  and  escorted  her  into  the  Crimea  ; 
a  ship  was  launched  for  her  amusement  ;  and  she  inspected  the 
docks  which  were  being  constructed  by  her  orders  at  Cherson  on 
the  Dnieper. 

Catherine  gave  token  that  she  was  competent  to  reign  ad- 
vantageously :  she  effected  several  useful  reforms,  and  established 
many  valuable  institutions.  She  corrected  the  tribunals;  she 
founded  schools,  hospitals,  and  colonies.  She  ameliorated  the  con- 
dition of  the  serfs;  and  she  encouraged  popular  instruction.  She 
promoted  international  intercourse ;  and  sought  to  extend  good 
understanding  between  her  own  and  foreign  courts.    She  began 


366 


CATHERINE  II. 


OF  RUSSIA. 


several  canals;  and  erected  arsenals,  banks,  and  manufactories, 
besides  founding  numerous  towns.  She  composed  a  code  of  legisla- 
tive regulations,  founded  on  the  works  of  Montesquieu,  and  other 
writers  on  jurisprudence.  This  composition  gained  her  great  and 
wide-spread  reno^^n ;  for  Catherine  was  not  a  little  proud  of  her 
production,  and  forwarded  copies  of  it  to  those  sovereigns  whose 
applause  she  was  anxious  to  obtain.  Among  others,  Frederick  of 
Prussia,  who  knew  her  appetite  for  eulogium,  wrote  her  a  long 
letter,  in  which  he  placed  her  between  Solon  and  Lycurgus, — 
(Catherine's  capacity  for  gorging  praise  was  indeed  large  !)  and  in 
the  despatch  to  the  Count  de  Solms — of  course  meant  to  meet  the 
imperial  eye  also — he  added :  "  History  informs  us  that  Semiramis 
commanded  armies  ;  that  Elizabeth  of  England  ranks  among  ablest 
politicians  ;  that  Maria  Theresa  showed  great  intrepidity  on  her 
coming  to  the  throne ; — but  no  female  monarch  has  yet  been  a 
legislatress  :  this  glory  was  reserved  for  the  Empress  of  Kussia,  who 
has  well  merited  the  title." 

She  encouraged  the  arts;  and  effected  various  excellent  im- 
provements in  the  academy,  where  artists  in  the  different  branches 
of  painting,  sculpture,  architecture ;  together  with  artificers  in 
watch-making,  metal-founding,  and  instruments  for  physical  and 
mathematical  science,  received  instruction,  and  were  boarded  at 
the  state  expense.  She  took  especial  pains  to  mark  her  encourage- 
ment of  literature  ;  she  appointed  the  yearly  sum  of  five  thousand 
rubles,  to  pay  those  who  would  make  versions  in  the  Bussian  lan- 
guage of  such  foreign  books  as  were  worthy  of  translation :  she 
granted  fresh  privileges  to  the  Academy  of  Science,  in  Petersburg, 
and  invited  several  strangers  of  note  to  come  and  share  in  the 
honours  it  awarded.  She  was  a  patroness  of  literature,  and  made 
a  point  of  displaying  her  encouragement  of  men  of  letters.  She 
was  a  great  admirer  of  the  French  writers,  especially  of  their 


CATHERINE    II.    OF    EUSSIA.  30*7 

tragic  poets.    Slie  made  great  advances  to  their  "  savaus,"  and 
"  pliilosopliers,"  and  was  munificent  in  lier  offers  to  them.  She 
caused  overtures  to  Ibe  made  to  D'Alembert,  to  induce  him  to  come 
to  Petersburg  and  finish  the  "  Encyclopedic  "  there ;  at  the  same 
time  that  he  should  undertake  to  superintend  the  education  of  the 
Grand-duke  Paul,  a  pension  of  two  thousand  pounds  being  named 
as  his   remuneration;    but  D'Alembert   declined  the  proposal. 
Hearins:  that  Diderot  was  straitened  in  his  circumstances,  and 
intended  selling   his  library  to   obtain  a  dowry  for  his  only 
daughter,  Catherine  bought  the  library,  and  left  the  former  owner 
its  enjoyment,  by  appointing  him  librarian.    Some  of  the  anec- 
dotes recorded  of  the  pleasant  terms  of  familiarity  which  she  main- 
tained in  her  intercourse  with  Diderot,  are  among  the  most  agree- 
able relating  to  her  social  history.   He  was  accustomed  to  converse 
with  her  every  day  after  dinner.    Philosophy,  legislation,  politics, 
ordinarily  formed  the  topics  of  these  discussions.    Diderot  used  to 
dilate  upon  his  principles  of  liberty,  and  the  rights  of  the  people, 
with  his  accustomed  enthusiasm  and  eloquence.    The  empress 
appeared  delighted;  but  she  was  very  far  from  adopting  his  views. 
She  has  been  heard  to  say:—"  Monsieur  Diderot,  m  many  things, 
is  a  hundred  years  of  age  ;  in  others,  he  is  not  more  than  ten  years 
old."    She  used  to  make  the  philosojDher  sit  beside  her ;  and  some- 
times, in  the  eagerness  of  his  discourse,  he  would  forget  the  rank 
of  his  interlocutor,  and  tap  the  empress  on  the  knee  with  the  back 
of  his  hand  as  he  talked ;  but  her  good  sense  never  reproved  in 
him  this  breach  of  etiquette.    To  Voltaire  she  showed  invariable, 
and  marked  deference ;  repeatedly  inviting  him  to  Petersburg ; 
but  the  "  dog-fox  "  sage  knew  better  than  to  exchange  the  luxury 
of  independence  in  his  retreat  at  Ferney,  for  the  uneasy  distinc- 
tion of  a  Eussian  court-residence.    Catherine  took  every  pains  to 
secure  Voltaire's  good  opinion,  and  obtain  his  good  word.  She 


368 


CATHERINE  II. 


OF  RUSSIA. 


knew  that  lie  was  tlie  arcli-dispenser  of  glory  to  European  sove- 
reigns at  that  period ;  and  that  it  rested  mainly  with  his  pen  to 
delineate  them  advantageously  to  the  eyes  of  jDosterity  ;  she  neg- 
lected no  means,  therefore,  that  might  win  her  his  favourable  report. 
Thus  playfully  and  gaily  she  was  wont  to  wiite  to  him ;  mingling 
gi'aceful  compliment  with  condescending  familiarity:  intimating, 
at  the  same  time,  a  desire  for  his  applause,  couched  in  the  most 
flattering  terms : — "  I  shall  feel  pleased  with  myself,  whenever  I 
shall  ohtain  your  aj)probation,  sir.  I  have  revised  my  instructions 
for  the  code,  some  weeks  since,  because  I  then  thought  the  peace 
nearer  at  hand  than  it  was  ;  and  I  believe  I  acted  rightly  in  what 
I  did.  It  is  true,  this  code, — for  which  a  great  deal  of  material  is 
preparing,  and  some  is  already  arranged, — will  still  give  me  con- 
siderable work  to  do,  before  it  becomes  as  perfect  as  I  wish  to  see 
it ;  but  no  matter,  it  must  be  finished,  although  Taganrok  has  the 
sea  on  its  south,  and  high  grounds  on  its  north. 

"  Meanwhile,  your  projects  respecting  this  place  cannot  be  car- 
ried into  efiect  before  j)eace  shall  have  secured  its  environs  from 
all  apprehension  by  either  sea  or  land  ;  for  until  the  capture  of  the 
Crimea,  it  was  the  frontier  place  against  the  Tartars.  Perhaps, 
ere  long,  they'll  bring  me  the  Crimean  Khan  in  person.  I  have 
just  learned  that  he  has  not  crossed  the  sea  with  the  Turks ;  but 
that  he  remains  up  in  the  mountains,  with  a  small  band  of  follow- 
ers ;  something  like  the  Pretender  in  Scotland,  after  his  defeat  at 
CuUoden.  If  the  Khan  come  to  me,  we'll  try  what  we  can  do  to 
j)olish  him  a  little  ;  and  to  reveuge  myself  upon  him,  I'll  make  him 
dance,  and  he  shall  go  to  the  French  theatre." 

Catherine  was  fond  of  miugling  a  certain  drollery  with  her 
rebukes.  Her  answer  to  the  Princess  Daschkoff,  already  related, 
contains  an  instance  of  this  touch  of  humour  in  her  sarcasm, — and 
which,  naturally,  rendered  it  doubly  pungent  to  the  princess.  On 


CATHERINE    II.    OF    11  U  S  S  I  A .  359 

anotlier  occasion,  wlien  tlie  empress  had.  been  dispensing  sumptuous 
recompenses  to  her  different  generals,  for  tlieir  military  services  in 
the  gaining  of  an  important  victory,  some  of  them  chose  to  consider 
themselves  inadequately  rewarded,  and  not  only  expressed  their 
discontent,  but  sent  in  their  resignations.  Catherine  accepted 
them  ;  and  during  the  evening  she  said  to  her  courtiers  : — "  I  sent 
off  a  courier  to-day ;  and  I  give  you,  as  a  riddle,  to  guess  where  I 
sent  him."  No  one  (of  course)  could  possibly  imagine, — and 
would  not,  if  they  could :  but  the  next  day  the  enigma  was  solved. 
The  empress  had  sent  for,  from  a  village  near  Moscow,  some 
dozens  of  little  peg-tops, — boys'  playthings ;  and  these  she  directed 
should  be  carried  to  the  three  generals  who  had  just  resigned,  with 
this  message  from  her  : — "  that  a-s  henceforth  they  would  be  sadly 
out  of  work,  she  had  sent  them  something  to  amuse  themselves 
with." 

One  of  the  strong  proofs  of  Catherine's  superior  talent,  was  her 
being  able  to  do  so  very  many  things  at  once,  and  all  well. 
Although  incessantly  occupied  with  grand  projects,  she  seemed  as 
if  wholly  given  up  to  pleasure.  The  secret  lay  in  her  admirable 
distribution  of  time.  She  found  time, — owing  to  her  excellent 
economy  of  hours,  and  orderly  arrangement  of  them  for  each 
employment, — to  work  at  state-affairs  with  her  ministers ;  to  decree 
new  laws  ;  to  write  with  her  own  hand,  the  orders  and  despatches 
sent  to  her  ambassadors  and  generals ;  to  maintain  a  continued 
correspondence  with  men  of  letters,  and  artists  ;  to  give  regularly 
appointed  audiences  to  her  subjects;  to  be  present  at  all  the 
court  amusements  ;  and  to  attend  to  her  intrigues  and  gallantries. 
Constant  in  her  ambition,  she  was  inconstant  in  her  amours ;  and 
both  these  opposed  pursuits  made  large  demands  upon  her  time. 
To  keep  in  view  ambitious  schemes,  and  to  change  a  favourite, 
require  some  attention  and  management ;  and  Catherine  found  time 


370 


CATHERINE  II. 


OF  RUSSIA. 


for  Ibotli  these  occupations.  The  number  of  her  favourites  chron- 
icled by  name  in  the  memoirs  of  her  time,  amount  to  no  fewer  than 
twelve;  while  the  numberless  officers  and  courtiers  who  were 
reported  to  have  been  regarded  by  her  with  an  eye  of  j)artiality, 
may  be  summed  up  in  one  word, — Legion. 

The  way  in  which  Catherine  disposed  of  her  discarded  favour- 
ites, is  characteristic.  They  received  an  order  to  travel ;  and  on 
arriving  at  the  first  stage  of  their  journey,  they  found  munificent 
presents  awaiting  them, — diamonds,  plate,  money,  and  an  estate 
valued  at  so  many  serfs'  worth :  estates  in  Russia  being  estimated 
by  the  amount  of  peasants— human  live-stock ;  so  many  heads  of 
(not  cattle,  but)  men  and  women— upon  them.  Some  of  the 
anecdotes  related  of  the  empress's  favourites,  serve  to  show  the  sort 
of  men  she  approved,  as  well  as  to  exhibit  traits  of  her  own  char- 
acter. One  of  them,  named  Zoritz,  complained  of  his  sudden 
dismissal,  and  besought  a  friend  in  power  to  enquire  the  cause  of 
his  imperial  mistress.  She  answered  lightly  : — "  Yesterday  I  liked 
him ; — to-day  I  don't  like  him.  PerhajDS  if  he  were  better  educated, 
I  should  like  him  still ;  but  his  ignorance  makes  me  blush." 
[Catherine's  blushes  .^]  "  He  can  sjDeak  nothing  but  Russian.  He 
must  travel  in  France  and  England  to  learn  other  languages.'' 
And  Zoritz,  accordingly,  was  sent  on  his  travels.  Another  young 
officer,  Rimsky  KorzakofP,  who  succeeded  Zoritz  in  im]3erial  liking, 
wishing,  probably,  to  profit  by  the  example  of  his  predecessor's 
defect,  was  so  anxious  to  supply  the  deficiency  in  his  mental  en- 
dowments, of  which  he  was  conscious,  that  he  sought  to  give  him- 
self the  reputation  of  a  reading  man  ;  and  accordingly  ordered  one 
of  the  first  booksellers  in  Petersburg  to  fit  him  up  a  library ;  but 
when  asked  what  description  of  books  he  would  have,  the  court- 
military-dunce  replied : — "  You  ought  to  know  that  better  than  I ; 


CATHERINE  II. 


OF  RUSSIA. 


371 


that's  your  affair.  Put  big  books  below,  and  little  ones  a-top ; 
that's  how  they  are  in  the  empress's  library." 

The  mode  in  which  Catherine  behaved,  when  she  found  a 
favourite  possessing  more  intellect  than  Zoritz  and  Korzakoff,  is 
noticeable  in  her  conduct  to  Potemkin ;  and,  in  its  way,  not  a  whit 
less  characteristic.  The  first-rate  politician  was  not  to  be  turned 
adrift,  like  the  young  fribbles  above  alluded  to :  both  his  adroit- 
ness and  her  shrewdness  forbade  this.  When,  therefore,  Potem- 
kin, like  the  rest,  had  ceased  to  please,  he  received  the  order  to 
travel ;  but  the  very  next  evening,  instead  of  being  on  his  way,  he 
quietly  presented  himself  at  the  empress's  whist-table,  and  took  his 
seat  opposite  to  her,  just  as  she  was  beginning  the  game.  With- 
out noticing  his  flagrant  disobedience,  she  dealt  him  a  card,  ob- 
'  serving  that  he  was  "  a  lucky  player ; " — and  no  farther  mention 
was  made  of  his  retirement.  She,  on  the  contrary,  made  a  friend 
of  the  discarded  favourite  ;  and  retained  him  near  her,  as  her  con- 
fidential minister,  availing  herself  of  his  consummate  abilities  as  a 
statesman,  until  the  "period  of  his  death.  When  this  occurred, 
Catherine  gave  an  energetic  proof  of  her  diligence  and  business- 
habits;  she  shut  herself  up,  and  dedicated  herself  to  work  in  the 
administration  and  government  of  the  empire,  for  fifteen  hours  at 
a  time,  and  apportioned  out  among  her  other  ministers  the  duties 
which  Potemkin  had,  till  then,  so  ably  discharged. 

Catherine  knew  how  to  make  her  feelings  subservient  to  her 
views.  In  the  first  place,  her  feelings  were  not  sensitive ;  and  in 
the  next  place  they  were  entirely  under  controul.  She  had  secret 
anxieties  lest  she  should  be  dethroned,  or  her  life  attempted :  but 
whenever  these  beset  her,  she  used  to  talk  with  gaiety  of  the  long 
and  prosperous  course  she  hoped  to  enjoy.  She  once  found 
amon^  her  papers,  in  her  study,  where  she  was  in  the  habit  of 


3*72  CATHERINEII.    Oi'  RUSSIA. 

spending  many  liours  alone,  reading  or  writing,  a  little  note,  con-  - 
taining  a  menace  of  assassination ; — and  never  had  she  worn  a 
countenance  of  greater  composure  and  confidence  than  upon  that 
occasion.  Her  thirst  for  glory  enabled  her  to  constrain  her  fea- 
tures to  assume  what  expression  she  chose  ;  and  to  feign  such  sen- 
timents as  she  thought  most  likely  to  win  panegyric.  When  her 
interests  demanded  it,  she  could  be  full  of  glowing  profession,  and 
zealous  show ;  when  her  purposes  required  an  aj)pearance  of  good- 
ness, she  could  talk  virtuously ;  but  her  actions  rarely  seconded 
her  protestations.  She  cloaked  defective  worth  with  large  words  ; 
and  when  liking  waned,  concealed  it  by  profuse  gifts. 

"  When  love  begins  to  sicken  and  decay, 
It  useth  an  enforced  ceremony." 

Certainly  Catherine's  did :  she  heaped  presents,  as  soon  as  she 
cared  not  a  straw  for  the  object  of  her  munificence.  She  was  a 
pattern-politician  for  a  hollow  world. 

The  pleasantest  points  to  contemplate  in  Catherine,  are  her  oc- 
casional ease  of  condescension,  and  graciousness  of  demeanour,  in 
the  midst  of  her  imperial  hardiness,  and  haughtiness  of  etiquette  ; 
and  her  fondness  for  children.  The  former  is  noted  in  her  familiar- 
ity of  behaviour  with  Diderot,  and  her  manner  of  suff'erins' 
freedoms  from  a  few  privileged  adherents.  An  example  of  the 
latter  is  recorded,  in  her  allowing  herself,  in  one  or  two  instances, 
to  be  called  "  Katinga,"  or  "  Katouschka,"  which  are  the  Kussian 
diminutives  for  Catherine.  A  certain  facetious  doctor  of  the  name 
Janijossy,  addressed  her  thus :  she  was  occasionally  subject  to  fits 
of  depression ;  and  when  he  observed  her  under  the  influence  of 
one  of  these  moody  humours,  he  used  to  say,  jocosely  :  "  Come, 
come,  Katinga ;  we  must  be  gay  if  we  wish  to  be  well ;  and  we 
must  take  exercise  if  we  wish  to  be  gay."  And  then  he  would 
take  her  arm  in  his,  and  walk  her  with  him  round  the  palace  gar 


CATHERINE    II.    OF    EUSSIA.  373 

dens.  It  recalls  Dick  Tarlton's  style  witli  Queen  Bess,  as  related 
by  Fuller  ;  who  says  tliat  when  her  majesty  was  gloomily  disposed, 
this  privileged  jester  could  "  undumpishher  at  pleasure."  ; 

Catherine's  fondness  for  children  is  made  manifest  by  the  care 
with  which  she  provided  for  their  education ;  and  by  the  delight 
she  took  in  having  them  constantly  about  her.  She  had  a  number 
of  them  always  in  her  departments  ;  and  allowed  them  to  use  the 
same  liberties  and  freedom  of  intercourse  with  her,  as  the  young 
princes,  her  grandsons.  They  never  called  the  empress  by  any 
other  title  than  grandmamma;  and  she  received,  and  returned 
their  caresses  with  pleased  cordiality.  She  not  only  promoted 
public  education  with  ceaseless  interest,  but  she  gave  it  her  per- 
sonal superintendence  and  inspection;  and  the  minuteness  with 
which  she  entered  into  the  details  of  her  grandchildren's  instruc- 
tion, is  even  beautiful,  from  such  a  woman.  She  directed  its  course 
herself; — she  devoted  a  portion  of  her  time,  daily,  to  its  progress : 
she  wrote  several  essays  on  history  and  moral  philosophy  for  the 
use  of  the  young  princes,  and  chose  a  very  superior  woman  as 
governess  to  the  young  princesses.  She  attended  their  lessons, 
and  looked  over  their  studies  and  copy-books,  appending  notes  to 
them  with  her  own  hand,  addressed  sometimes  to  the  pupils,  some- 
times to  the  teachers.  One  day,  chancing  to  come  into  their 
school-room  in  their  absence,  she  perceived  that  the  morning's 
lesson  had  for  its  subject,  the  government  of  Switzerland;  and 
that  the  tutor  had  treated  the  theme  with  the  candour  and  warmth 
of  a  man  who  knew  how  to  appreciate  the  advantages  possessed 
by  a  free  people.  She  wrote  at  the  foot  of  the  page :— "  Monsiem- 
La  Harpe,  pray  continue  your  lessons  in  this  manner.  Your  senti- 
ments extremely  please  me."  Later  on,  the  French  revolution 
gave  a  check  to  the  empress's  liberal  sentiments ;  but  it  was  some- 
thing for  her  to  have  seen  the  value  of  liberality  at  any  time, — 


374  CATHERINE    II.    OF  RUSSIA. 

especially  when  influeucmg  tlie  oijinions  of  tliose  wlio  were  to  be 
the  future  rulers  of  the  Russian  empire. 

Catherine  was  still  in  the  full  ardour  of  her  ambitious  aspira- 
tions, and  the  eager  pursuit  of  her  projects  for  extending  the  pos- 
sessions of  Russia,  together  with  her  own  aggrandisement  and 
glory,  when  a  sudden  death  put  an  end  to  her  schemes  and  her  life 
at  once.  She  exj^ired  on  the  l7th  N'ovember,  1796,  after  having 
reigned  thirty-five  years. 

Catherine  II.  was  pretty  during  her  youth ;  and  when  in  matu- 
rity, she  possessed  both  grace  and  majesty.  She  was  of  medium 
height,  but  well  proportioned ;  and  as  she  carried  her  head  very 
upright,  she  seemed  taller  than  she  really  was.  Her  forehead  was 
ample ;  her  nose  rather  aquiline ;  her  mouth  well  cut,  and  pleas- 
ins  ;  her  chin  somewhat  Ions:,  but  not  ill-formed.  Her  hair  was  of 
a  chestnut  brown ;  her  eyebrows,  dark  and  full.  Her  blue  eyes 
were  capable  of  sweetness,  which  they  often  put  on ;  but  still 
oftener  wore  a  haughty  look.  Her  countenance  was  not  wanting 
in  expression ;  but  this  expression  served  but  little  to  reveal  what 
was  passing  within, — or  rather,  she  made  it  a  means  of  the  better 
disguising  what  she  really  felt.  She  generally  wore  the  Russian 
costume, — a  green  or  scarlet  dress  (those  being  the  favourite 
national  colours)  which  formed  a  shortish  robe,  opening  in  front, 
with  light  sleeves  descending  to  the  wrist.  Her  hair,  lightly 
powdered,  lay  in  curls  upon  her  shoulders ;  and  on  the  top  she 
wore  a  little  cap  covered  with  diamonds.  Towards  the  latter  years 
of  her  life  she  rouged  highly,  thinking  to  hide  the  traces  of  time, 
— and  perhaps  because  it  was  a  prevalent  mode  in  France,  the 
Russians  having  been  always  fond  of  adopting  Paris  fashions 
(which  people  are  not  ?)  as  a  mark  of  refinement.  She  took  a  far 
better  method  for  preserving  her  complexion  in  juvenile  clearness 
and  smoothness, — she  was  abstemious  in  her  meals ;  taking  but  a 


CATHERINE    II.    OF    RUSSIA.  375 

liglit  breakfast,  eating  moderately  at  dinner,  and  never  indulging 
in  suppers.  So  temperate  a  diet  was  tlie  more  remarkable,  in  one 
wlio  lived  where  tlie  ricliest  viands  and  rarest  wines  were  partaken 
of  to  excess : — but  possibly,  tke  very  examples  slie  liad  before  lier 
eyes,  served  as  a  warning  to  a  woman  of  Catlierine's  slirewd  good 
sense. 

In  order  truly  to  de^^ict  ker  character,  particulars  kave  been 
narrated  in  tke  course  of  tkis  account  wkick  otherwise  would  not 
have  been  discussed.  But  it  was  impossible  to  give  a  faithful  pic- 
ture of  Catherine  II.,  and  not  allude  to  her  moral,  or  rather  her 
immoral  principles.  It  would  have  b'een  unjust  to  a  pure  and 
noble  woman,  illustrious,  and,  morally,  a  perfect  woman,  like 
Isabella  of  Castile — seeing  that,  as  a  queen,  she  combined  all 
that  was  finest  in  virtuous  conduct  with  all  that  was  greatest  in 
regal  accomplishment — not  to  have  represented  the  Empress 
Catherine  in  her  true  colours.  She  was  a  female  sovereign  of 
even  masculine  energy  of  cleverness ;  but  she  was  masculine  in  her 
views  of  morality.  Catherine  II.  of  Eussia  had  male  favourites  as 
kings  have  mistresses ;  and  she  would  doubtless  have  asserted  her 
equal  claims — ^having  equal  power  with  the  kings — to  act  as  they 
did :  it  would  therefore  be  drawing  but  an  imperfect  pourtrayal 
of  her  character,  were  not  this  coarse  particular  adduced,  while 
recording  the  talent  for  state  administration,  and  for  extension  of 
territorial  dominion,  which  distinguished  her ;  and  which  rendered 
this  empress,  perhaps,  the  most  eminent  monarch  that  ever  occu- 
pied the  Russian  throne. 


■■'I'l  I'.i-d.nlwiy 


9 


MISS  NIGHTOGALE. 

Instead  of  commencing  tlie  present  sul)ject,  like  tlie  rest,  with  a 
definition  of  tlie  peculiar  cliaracteristic  emiDodied  by  her,  as  one  of 
our  World-Noted  Women,  it  might  perchance  be  better  to  begin 
with  an  apology  for  venturing  to  introduce  a  living  personage  at 
all  in  a  book  discussing  character.  It  has  been  justly  said  by  a 
celebrated  French  writer  : — "  On  doit  des  egards  aux  vivants  ;  on 
ne  doit  aux  morts  que  la  verite."  [We  owe  consideration  to  the 
living;  while  to  the  dead,  we  owe  but  truth.]  Happily,  mere 
truth  is  the  most  honouring  consideration  that  can  be  paid  to  the 
character  of  Miss  Nightingale.  The  only  inj  ustice  that  could  be 
done  to  her  merit,  would  consist  in  forbearing  to  state  simply  and 
candidly  the  facts  of  her  career,  or  to  pass  them  over  in  silence  ; 
for  no  written  praise  can  add  honour  to  the  merit  of  her,  who,  as 
Shakespeare  says,  is — 

"  One  that  excels  the  quirks  of  blazoning  pens, 
And  in  the  essential  vesture  of  creation 
Does  bear  all  excellency." 

Therefore  encomium  may  be  spared,  not  only  out  of  regard  to  her 
modesty, — for  hers  are  just  the  kind  of  virtues  which  of  all  others 
most  shrink  from  laudation  ; — ^namely.  Philanthropy,  Charity,  Be- 
nevolence,— but  because  their  very  existence  and  exercise  bespeak 

48 


378 


MISS    N  I  G  II  T  1  N  a  A  L  E . 


their  own  homage.  Happy  tlie  deeds,  wliicli  in  tlieir  bare  enumer 
ation  proclaim  tlieir  own  surj)assing  worth.  The  bald  chronicle 
of  Miss  Nightiugale's  actions  suffices  at  once  to  record  and  eulogize 
them. 

It  were  difficult  to  write  of  a  living  illustrious  woman  without 
dread  of  wounding  her  sensitive  delicacy ;  but  the  reverential  spirit 
in  which  her  character  is  held  forth  to  admiration, — the  wholesome 
emulation  excited  by  relating  such  deeds, — the  hope  of  thus  pro- 
ducing yet  another  good,  in  addition  to  all  that  she  has  effected, 
will,  it  is  trusted,  plead  in  extenuation  with  the  object  of  this  nar- 
rative, for  making  her  the  subject — not  of  panegyric,  that  has  been 
shown  to  be  out  of  the  question,  but — of  admmng  discussion. 

Miss  Florence  Nightingale  is  the  youngest  daughter  and  pre- 
sumptive co-heiress  of  Mr.  William  Shore  Nightingale,  of  Embley 
Park,  Hampshire,  and  the  Lea  Hurst,  Derbyshire,  in  England. 

As  it  has  been  frequently  stated  in  the  British  public  prints 
that  Miss  Nightingale  numbers  the  same  years  with  the  Queen  of 
England,  and  as  that  royal  lady  playfully  entered  her  age  in  the 
list,  at  the  time  the  census  was  taken  of  the  population  of  Great 
Britain,  it  would  be  no  infringement  of  discretion  to  place  the 
period  of  Miss  Nightingale's  birth  somewhere  about  the  year  1819  ; 
but  one  authority  affirms  that  she  was  born  at  Florence  in  the 
year  1823,  and  received  her  Christian  name  in  memory  of  that  fair 
Italian  city.  It  is  well  known  also,  that  she  is  a  young  lady  of 
singular  endowments,  both  natural  and  acquired.  She  possesses  a 
knowledge  of  the  ancient  languages,  and  of  the  higher  branches  of 
mathematics;  while  her  attainments  in  general  art,  science,  and 
literature,  are  of  no  common  order.  Her  command  of  modern 
languages  is  extensive;  and  she  speaks  French,  German,  and 
Italian,  fluently  as  her  native  English.  She  has  visited  and 
studied  the  various  nations  of  Europe,  and  has  ascended  the  Nile 


MISS    N  I  a  H  T  I  N  G  A  L  E 


3T9 


to  its  farthest  cataract.  Wliile  in  Egyj^t,  she  tended  the  sick 
Arabs  with  whom  she  came  in  contact ;  and  it  was  frequently  in 
her  power,  by  judicious  advice,  to  render  them  important  services 
Graceful,  feminine,  rich,  and  popular,  her  influence  over  those  with 
whom  she  comes  in  contact  is  powerful  as  it  is  gentle  and  per- 
suasive. Her  friends  and  acquaintance  embrace  a  large  circle,  and 
include  persons  of  all  classes  and  persuasions ;  but  her  happiest 
place  has  ever  been  her  home ;  where, — in  the  centre  of  numerous 
distinguished  relatives,  and  in  the  simplest  obedience  to  her  admir- 
ing parents,  she  dwelt. 

Yet  this  was  the  life  she  left — a  life  not  only  blessed  with  all 
that  renders  existence  privileged,  but  with  all  that  makes  it  useful 
to  others  (the  dearest  of  all  privileges  to  her  nature) — to  fulfil  a 
self-imposed  duty. 

It  was  because  she  felt  the  sphere  of  her  utility  to  be  even 
larger  than  the  one  afforded  by  her  affluent  home,  that  she  gave  up 
that  home.  From  infancy  she  had  a  yearning  affection  for  her 
kind, — a  sympathy  with  the  weak,  the  oppressed,  the  destitute, 
the  suffering  and  the  desolate.  The  schools  and  the  poor  around 
Lea  Hurst  and  Embley  first  saw  and  felt  her  as  a  visitor,  teacher, 
consoler,  and  expounder.  Then  she  frequented  and  studied  the 
schools,  hospitals,  and  reformatory  institutions  of  London,  Edin- 
burgh, and  the  Continent.  In  1851,  when  the  whole  civilized 
world  had  a  holiday  durmg  the  Great  Exhibition,  and  were  en- 
gaged in  parties  of  pleasure,  Miss  Nightingale  was  within  the  walls 
of  one  of  the  German  houses,  or  hospitals,  for  the  care  of  the  lost 
and  infirm.  At  the  Great  Lutheran  hospital,  established  at 
Kaiserwerth,  near  Diisseldorf,  on  the  Khine,— an  establishment 
out  of  which  no  person  is  allowed  to  pass  to  practise  as  a  nurse, 
except  after  having  gone  through  severe  examination,— Miss 
Nightingale  spent  some  months  in  daily  and  nightly  attendance  ou 


• 


380 


MISS  NIGHTINGALE. 


the  sick  and  tlie  miserable,  accumulating  experience  in  all  the 
duties  and  labours  of  female  ministration.  The  gentleman  at  the 
head  of  that  establishment,  the  Pasteur  Fliedner,  asserted  that 
since  he  had  been  director  of  that  institution,  no  one  had  ever 
passed  so  distinguished  an  examination,  or  shown  herself  so 
thoroughly  mistress  of  all  she  had  to  learn,  as  Miss  Nightingale. 

On  her  return  to  England,  she,  for  a  space,  became  again  the 
delight  of  her  own  happy  home ;  but  it  was  not  long  before  her 
desire  to  extend  her  aid  to  those  who  needed  relief,  prevailed 
to  bring  her  forth.  The  hos]3ital  established  in  London  for  sick 
governesses  was  about  to  fad  for  want  of  proper  management ; 
and  Miss  Nightingale  consented  to  be  placed  at  its  head.  Derby- 
shire and  Hampshire  were  exchanged  for  the  narrow,  dreary 
establishment  in  Harley  Street,  to  which  she  devoted  the  whole  of 
her  time,  and  her  fortune.  While  her  friends  missed  her  at  assem- 
blies, lectures,  concerts,  exhibitions,  and  all  the  entertainments  for 
taste  and  intellect  with  which  London  in  its  season  abounds,  she 
whose  powers  could  have  best  a|)preciated  them,  was  sitting  beside 
the  bed  and  soothing  the  last  complaints  of  some  poor  dying, 
homeless,  hapless  governess.  Miss  Nightingale  found  pleasure  in 
tending  these  poor  destitute  women  in  their  infirmities,  their  sor- 
rows, their  deaths,  or  their  recoveries.  She  was  seldom  seen  out  of 
the  walls  of  the  institution ;  and  the  few  friends  whom  she  admit- 
ted, found  her  in  the  midst  of  nurses,  letters,  prescriptions,  ac- 
counts, and  interruptions.  Her  health  sank  under  the  heavy 
pressure ;  but  a  little  Hampshire  fresh  air  restored  her ;  and  the 
failing  institution  was  saved. 

Then  came  the  disastrous  accounts  of  the  sufferings  in  the  East ; 
of  the  additional  rigours  that  the  soldiery  were  enduring  from  want 
of  effectual  hospital  treatment,  and  from  defective  management 
in  supplying  stores  and  necessary  relief.    There  arose  at  once  an 


MISSNiailTINaALB.  355 

entliusiastic  desire  to  remedy  tlie  evil.  The  English,  with  their 
energy  of  resolve,  where  existing  mischief  demands  instant  cure, 
raised  a  fund  which  should  furnish  the  requisite  power  to  provide 
what  was  needed  immediately,  without  waiting  for  forms,  and 
beards,  and  official  obstruction  undei  the  name  of  authorized 
organization.  A  subscription  was  set  afoot ;  and  in  less  than  a 
fortnight  the  sum  of  £15,000  was  sent  into  the  Times  Office  for 
the  above  purpose.  The  proprietors  of  that  journal  sent  out  a 
special  commissioner,  Mr.  Macdonald,  to  administer  this  fund,  from 
which  thousands  of  shirts,  sheets,  stockings,  flannels,  quilted  coats, 
and  hospital  utensils,  besides  large  quantities  of  arrow-root,  sago, 
sugar,  tea,  soap,  wine,  and  brandy,  were  supplied.  One  of  the 
chief  points  in  which  the  deficiency  of  proper  comfort  and  relief 
for  the  sick  and  wounded  sufferers  was  felt,  was  the  want  of  good 
nursing.  To  send  out  a  band  of  skilful  nurses  was  soon  found  to 
be  one  of  the  most  essential  of  all  supplies.  But  unless  these  were 
really  skilled,  more  harm  than  good  would  certainly  accrue :  zeal, 
without  experience,  could  effect  little  ;  and  a  bevy  of  incompetent, 
or  ill-organized  nurses,  would  prove  an  incumbrance,  instead  of  an 
assistance.  Now  it  was  that  a  field  was  opened  for  the  wider 
exercise  of  Miss  Nightingale's  genius  and  philanthrojDy ;  and  now 
it  was,  that  her  admirable  abilities  were  secured  for  the  great 
object  in  view.  At  the  request  of  the  Eight  Hon.  Sydney  Her- 
bert, Miss  Nightingale  at  once  accepted  the  proposal  that  she 
should  undertake  to  form  and  controul  the  entu-e  nursing  estabhsh- 
ment  for  the  British  sick  and  wounded  soldiers  and  sailors  in  the 
Crimea,  Indeed,  it  is  asserted,  that  by  a  strange  coincidence-  —one 
of  those  coincidences  arising  out  of  urgent  necessity  felt  and  met 
at  once— she  had  herself  written  to  Mi-.  Herbert  on  the  very  same 
day,  volunteering  her  services  where  they  were  so  much  needed. 
The  task  was  one  which  involved  sacrifices  and  responsibilities  of 


382 


MISS  NIGHTINGALE- 


formidable  magnitude : — tlie  risk  of  her  own  life,  the  pang  of  sepa- 
ration from  her  family  and  friends,  the  certainty  of  encountering 
hardships,  dangers,  toils,  and  the  constantly  recurring  scene  of 
human  suflPering  amidst  all  the  worst  horrors  of  war;  together 
with  an  amount  of  obstacle  and  difficulty  in  the  carrying  out 
of  her  noble  work,  wholly  incalculable.  Few  but  would  have 
recoiled  from  such  a  prospect ;  Miss  Nightingale,  however,  met  it 
with  her  own  spirit  of  welcome  for  occasion  to  devote  herself  in 
the  cause  of  humanity.  Heroic  was  the  firmness  with  which  she 
voluntarily  encountered  her  task ;  glorious  was  the  constancy  with" 
which  she  persevered  in,  and  achieved  it.  The  same  force  of  nature 
which  had  enabled  her  quietly  and  resolutely  to  accumulate  powers 
of  consolation  and  relief  for  the  behoof  of  her  fellow-creatures, 
enabled  her  to  persist  steadily  to  the  end,  and  carry  out  her  high 
purpose  with  a  success,  holy  as  it  was  triumphant. 

On  Tuesday  the  24th  of  October,  1854,  Miss  Nightingale,  ac- 
companied by  the  Eevd.  Mr.  Bracebridge,  and  his  wife,  and  a  staff 
of  thirty-seven  nurses,  set  out  from  England.  On  her  way 
through  France,  she  and  her  companions  were  received  with  the 
most  respectful  attention  ;  hotel-keepers  refusing  payment  for 
their  accommodation,  servants  declining  the  customary  fees, 
and  all  classes  vieing  to  show  sympathy  with  their  mission.  On 
passing  through  the  French  metropolis,  one  of  the  Paris  journals 
made  a  characteristic  remark  upon  Miss  Nightingale's  appearance, 
which,  coming  from  the  source  whence  it  did,  was  the  extreme  of 
intended  compliment  and  interest.  The  paper  observed,  that  "  her 
toilet  was  charming ;  and  she  was  almost  as  graceful  as  a  Parisi- 
enne."  On  the  Friday  following,  Miss  Nightingale  and  her  com- 
panions embarked  at  Marseilles  in  the  Vectis  steamer ;  and,  after 
a  stormy  passage,  they  reached  Scutari  on  the  5th  of  November, 
just  before  the  wounded  in  the  action  of  Balaklava  began  to  arrive. 


M  I  S  S    N  I  G  II  T  I  N  G  A  L  E  .  ooo 

ooo 

Five  rooms  wMcli  had  been  set  aj^art  for  wounded  general  oflacers, 
were  liapj^ily  unoccupied  ;  and  these  were  assigned  to  Miss  Night- 
ingale and  her  nurses ;  who,  in  appearance  and  demeanour,  formed 
a  strong  contrast  to  the  usual  aspect  of  hospital  attendants.  Un- 
der such  management,  the  chaotic  confusion  of  the  vast  hospital 
was  quickly  reduced  to  order  : — the  wounded,  before  left  for  many 
hours  unattended,  now  scarcely  uttered  a  groan  without  some 
gentle  nurse  being  at  hand  to  adjust  their  pillow,  and  alleviate 
their  discomfort : — tears  stood  in  the  eyes  of  many  a  veteran  while 
he  confessed  his  conviction,  that  indeed  the  British  soldier  was 
cared  for  by  his  country ;  since  ladies  would  leave  the  comforts 
and  luxuries  of  home  to  come  and  tend  him  in  his  misery.  Far  from 
realizing  the  fears  which  had  been  entertained  by  officials,  that 
this  new  addition  to  the  staff  of  a  military  hospital  would  not 
work  well,  Miss  Nightingale  and  her  nurses  were  "  never  found  in 
the  way,  except  to  do  good." — Whenever,  as  after  the  battle  of  In- 
kermann  crowds  of  wounded  arrived,  there  was  feminine  ministry  at 
hand  to  tend  them ;  and  when  medical  stores  failed,  or  demand  arose 
for  articles  not  forthcoming,  the  Times  Commissioner  supplied  Miss 
Nightingale  at  once  with  what  was  needed,  if  it  could  be  procured 
by  money  in  the  bazaars  or  stores  of  Constantinople.  This  promp- 
titude of  Mr.  Macdonald  in  seconding  Miss  Nightingale's  exertions, 
deserves  all  praise ;  for  it  mainly  enabled  her  to  carry  out  the  im- 
mediate requisites  of  her  plan.  His  own  excellent  letters,  written 
at  the  time,  give  a  most  vivid  picture  of  the  difficulties  she  had  to 
contend  with,  in  the  shape  of  ill-contrived  arrangements  alone,  be- 
sides other  obstructions  to  her  procedure.  A  rule  of  the  service, 
which  required,  that  articles  (needed  for  present  use)  should  be 
obtained  from  home  through  the  Commissariat ;  and  a  regulation 
which  appointed  that  a  "board"  must  sit  upon  stores  already 
landed,  before  they  could  be  given  out,  will  serve  as  instances  to 


384 


MISS  NIGHTINGALE. 


sliow  what  were  some  few  of  the  obstacles  against  which  Miss 
Nightingale  had  to  exert  her  energies  of  discretion  and  presence  of 
mind.  To  comprehend  the  evils  occasioned  by  such  impediments, 
an  extract  from  one  of  the  nurses'  letters  will  offer  an  example : — 
"  I  know  not  what  sight  is  most  heart-rending ;  to  witness  fine-looking, 
strong  young  men  worn  down  by  exhaustion,  and  sinking  under  it, 
or  others  coming  in  fearfully  wounded.  The  whole  of  yesterday 
was  spent  in  sewing  men's  mattrasses  together ;  then  in  washing 
and  assisting  the  surgeons  to  dress  their  wounds ;  and  seeing  the 
poor  fellows  made  as  comfortable  as  their  circumstances  would 
admit  of  after  five  days'  confinement  on  board  ship,  during  which 
their  wounds  were  not  dressed.  Out  of  the  four  wards  committed 
to  my  charge,  eleven  men  died  in  the  night,  simply  from  exhaus- 
tion ;  which,  humanly  speaking,  might  have  been  stopped,  could 
I  have  laid  my  hands  upon  such  nourishment  as  I  know  they 
ought  to  have  had." 

In  the  article  of  hospital  clothing,  the  same  deplorable  effects 
resulted  from  the  delay  and  confusion  which  existed  before  Miss 
Nightingale's  remedial  measures  came  into  operation.  The  original 
supply  of  these  articles,  inadequate  as  it  was,  had  been  long  reduced 
so  low,  that  but  for  the  purchases  made  Avith  the  money  of  the 
Fund,  and  distributed  through  Miss  Nightingale,  a  large  propor- 
tion of  the  invalids  must  have  been  without  a  change  of  under- 
clothing, condemned  to  wear  the  tattered  filthy  rags  in  which  they 
were  brought  down  from  the  Crimea.  A  washing  contract  ex- 
isted, indeed,  but  it  was  entii-ely  inoperative  ;  and  the  consequence 
was,  that  not  only  the  beds,  but  the  shirts  of  the  men  were  in  a 
state  foul  and  unwholespme  beyond  description.  To  remedy  this, 
a  house  well  supplied  with  water,  was  engaged  at  the  charge  of 
the  Fund,  close  to  the  Barrack  Hospital,  where  the  clothing  sup 
plied  by  Miss  Nightingale  might  be  cleansed  and  dried.  Her 


MISS    NIGHTINGALE.  335 

supervision  liacl  an  eye  for  all  needs ;  lier  experience  liad  a  know- 
ledge for  all  that  should  be  done ;  and  her  energy  enabled  lier  to 
have  carried  into  effect  that  which  she  saw  and  knew  ought  to  be 
effected.  .  ■ 

In  ten  days  after  their  arrival,  Miss  Nightingale  and  her  as- 
sistants fitted  up  a  sort  of  impromptu  kitchen ;  and  from  this  hastily 
constructed  resource  eight  hundred  men  were  daily  su]3plied"  with 
their  respective  needful  quantities  of  well-cooked  food,  besides 
beef-tea  in  abundance.  They  who  are  acquainted  with  the  plan  of 
cookery  pursued  in  barracks,  where  all  a  company's  meat  and 
vegetables  are  boiled  in  one  copper,  the  portions  belonging  to 
messes  being  kept  in  separate  nets,  will  know  how  that  food  is 
likely  to  suit  the  sickly  appetite  of  a  fevered  patient,  and  how 
invaluable  a  system  which  provided  the  needful  light  diet  pre- 
pared with  due  quickness  as  well  as  nicety,  would  be  in  hospi- 
tal treatment.  This  was  effected  by  Miss-  Nightingale's  kitchen, 
even  in  its  early  operation  ;  and  it  subsequently  attained  a  degree 
of  excellence  productive  of  extensive  benefit  scarcely  to  be  es- 
timated by  those  unacquainted  with  the  importance  of  such  de- 
tails. Her  extraordinary  intelligence  and  capacity  for  organiza- 
tion, showed  itself  in  subordinate,  as  well  as  principal  points  of  ar- 
rangement. In  what  might  be  caUed  "  house-keeping  duties,"  she 
showed  womanly  accomplishment,  no  less  than  nice  judgment. 
"When  the  nurses  were  not  needed  at  the  bedsides  of  the  sick  and 
wounded,  they  were  employed  by  her  in  making  up  needful 
articles  of  bedding,  and  surgical  requisites, — such  as  stump  pillows 
for  amputation  cases.  Not  only  was  the  laundry  in  excellent 
w^orking-order,  but  by  the  strong  representation  of  Miss  Nightin- 
gale the  dysentery  wards  were  cleansed  out,  and  general  purifica- 
tion was  made  a  diligently  regarded  particular. 

During  the  first  two  months  of  her  arrival,  when  there  was  no 

49 


386 


MISS  NIGHTINGALE. 


one  else  to  act,  Miss  Nightingale  was  the  real  purveyor  of  those 
vast  establisliments— the  hospitals  at  Scutari ;  providing  what  could 
not  he  ohtained  through  the  regular  channels  of  the  service,  and, 
especially  from  her  kitchen,  supplying  comforts  without  which 
many  a  poor  fellow  would  have  died.    Her  name  and  benevolent 
services  were  the  theme  of  frequent  and  grateful  praise  among  the 
men  in  the  trenches ;  and  the  remark  was  made,  that  she  made 
the  barrack  hospital  so  comfortable,  that  the  convalescents  began 
to  show  a  decided  reluctance  to  leave  it.    Stores  of  shirts,  flannels, 
socks,  and  a  thousand  other  articles,  which  she  and  her  nurses  dis- 
tributed ;  brandy,  wine,  and  a  variety  of  things,  required  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice,  and  which  could  be  procured  from  Miss  Nightingale's 
quarters  without  delay  or  troublesome  formality,  rendered  her  the 
virtual  purveyor  for  the  whole  of  that  period,  during  which  she 
was  avowedly  the  person  in  whose  keeping  rested  not  only  the 
comfort,  but  the  existence  of  several  thousand  sick  and  wounded 
soldiers.    One  of  Mr.  Macdonald's  impressive  sentences  serves  to 
paint  the  condition  of  the  spot  in  which  Miss  Nightingale  at  that 
time  drew  breath.    He  says  :  "  Wounds  almost  refuse  to  heal  in 
this  atmosphere  ;  the  heavy  smell  of  pestilence  can  be  perceived 
outside  the  very  walls."    In  one  of  the  last  letters  he  wrote,  before 
he  was  compelled  by  failing  health  to  return  to  England,  the  Times 
Commissioner  bore  the  following  earnest  testimony  to  Miss  Night- 
ingale's excellence.    It  affords  a  beautiful  picture  of  her  in  the 
midst  of  her  self-imposed  task  of  mercy  and  charity.    These  are 
his  words : — "  Wherever  there  is  disease  in  its  most  dangerous  form 
and  the  hand  of  the  spoiler  distressingly  nigh,  there  is  that  incom- 
parable woman  sure  to  be  seen;  her  benignant  presence  is  an  influ- 
ence for  good  comfort,  even  amid  the  struggles  of  expiring  nature. 
She  is  a  '  ministering  angel,'  without  any  exaggeration,  in  these  hos- 
pitals :  and  as  her  slender  form  glides  quietly  along  each  corridor, 


MISS  NIGHTINGALE. 


every  poor  fellow's  face  softens  witli  gratitude  at  the  siglit  of  her 
When  all  the  medical  officers  have  retired  for  the  night,  and  si 
lence  and  darkness  have  settled  down  upon  those  miles  of  prostrate 
sick,  she  may  be  observed  alone,  with  a  little  lamp  in  her  hand, 
making  her  solitary  rounds.  The  popular  instinct  was  not  mistaken 
which,  when  she  set  out  from  England  on  her  mission  of  mercy, 
hailed  her  as  a  heroine ;  I  trust  that  she  may  not  earn  her  title  to 
a  higher  though  sadder  appellation.  'No  one  who  has  observed 
her  fragile  figure  and  delicate  health,  can  avoid  misgivings  lest 
these  should  fail.  With  the  heart  of  a  true  woman,  and  the  man- 
ners of  a  lady,  accomplished  and  refined  beyond  most  of  her  sex, 
she  combines  a  surprising  calmness  of  judgment  and  promptitude 
and  decision  of  character.  *  *  *  I  confidently  assert,  that, 
but  for  Miss  Nightingale,  the  people  of  England  would  scarcely, 
with  all  their  solicitude,  have  been  spared  the  additional  pang  of 
knowing,  which  they  must  have  done,  sooner  or  later,  that  their 
soldiers,  even  in  hospital,  had  found  scanty  refuge  and  relief  from 
the  unparalleled  miseries  with  which  this  war  has  hitherto  been 
attended." 

The  difficulties  of  Miss  Nightingale's  task  were  not  only  those 
arising  out  of  its  own  appertaining  perils  and  sacrifices,  and  those 
which  resulted  from  official  mismanagement ;  but  she  encountered 
much  opposition  springing  from  professional  prejudices  and  jeal- 
ousies. On  their  first  arriving,  so  far  from  being  welcomed,  the 
advent  of  the  nurses  was  looked  upon  as  an  evil,  resented  as  an 
xnterfei'ence,  and  treated  with  tacit,  if  not  open  discountenance. 
At  the  best,  they  were  tolerated,  not  encouraged.  Cabals  were 
got  up,  ill-feeling  fostered,  party  differences  disseminated  and  fo- 
mented. Passive  resistance  in  every  shape  was  resorted  to,  to 
prevent  the  installing  of  the  nurses  in  the  military  hospitals. 
Against  all  this,  nothing  but  the  exquisite  tact,  firmness,  and  good 


388 


MISS  NIGHTINOALE. 


sense  of  Miss  Nightingale  conld  have  prevailed.  Having  proved 
herself  a  vigorous  reformer  of  hospital  misrule,  she  had  to  encoun- 
ter the  tacit  opposition  of  nearly  all  the  principal  medical  officers : 
her  nurses  ^veve  sparingly  resorted  to,  even  in  the  Barrack  Hospi- 
tal, while  in  the  General  Hospital,— the  head-quarters  of  one  of 
the  chief  medical  authorities — she  held  a  very  insecure  footing. 
But  the  return  of  this  person  to  England,  the  continued  deficien- 
cies of  the  purveying,- and  the  increasing  emergencies  of  the  hos- 
pital service,  enabled  Miss  Nightingale  to  extend  the  sphere  of  her 
usefulness  ;  and  thus,  together  with  her  own  admirably  patient  per- 
severance, she  succeeded  in  having  her  nurses  employed  in  their 
proper  posts,  and  her  o^vn  system  established  in  perfect  working 
order. 

It  seems  mcredible  that  even  professional  prejudice  should  in- 
spire men  with  such  narrow-minded  fears,  and  actuate  them  to  such 
unworthy  conduct ;  but,  more  incredible  still,  that  the  grand  Chris- 
tianity of  Miss  Nightingale's  undertaking  could  not  protect  hei 
from  Pharisaical  attacks.  It  is  truly  marvellous,  that  a  self-devo 
tion  so  pure,  and  so  noble,  that  it  spoke  its  own  sacred  spirit  of 
piety  and  holiness,  should  require  not  only  explanation,  but  actual 
vindication.  In  one  instance,  a  friend  had  to  write  a  defence  of 
Miss  Nightingale  from  one  of  these  invidious  attacks— a  defence  of 
her,  who  deserved  universal  veneration  for  her  sublime  self  dedica- 
tion to  deeds  divine  in  their  charity  and  goodness  !  "While  Miss 
Nightingale  was  still  in  the  outset  of  her  onerous  task  in  the  East, 
this  was  the  letter  which  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Sydney  Herbert  wrote  on 
behalf  of  her  absent  friend— the  friend  of  thousands  of  sick, 
wounded,  and  dying  brethren  at  that  very  time  : — 

"49  Belgrate  Square,  Dec.  9,  1854. 

"  Madam  :  By  this  post  I  send  you  a  Christian  Times  of  Friday 
week  last,  by  which  you  will  see  how  cruel  and  unjust  are  the  re- 


MISS    NIGHTINGALE.  ggO 

ports         mention  about  Miss  Nightingale  and  her  noble  Avork 
Since  then  we  have  sent  forty-seven  nurses,  of  wMcli  I  enclose  you 
a  list.    It  is  melanclioly  to  think  that  in  Christian  England  no  one 
can  undertake  any  thing  without  the  most  uncharitable  and  secta- 
rian attacks ;  and,  had  you  not  told  me  so,  I  should  scarcely  have 
believed  that  a  clergyman  of  the  Established  Church  would  have 
been  the  mouthpiece  of  slander.    Miss  Nightingale  is  a  member  of 
the  Established  Church  of  England,  and  what  is  called  rather  Low 
Church.    But  ever  since  she  w^ent  to  Scutari,  her  religious  opinion 
and  character  have  been  assailed  on  all  points : — one  person  writes 
to  upbraid  us  for  having  sent  her,  '  understanding  she  is  a  Unita- 
rian ; '  another,  '  that  she  is-  a  Roman  Catholic,'  and  so  on.    It  is  a 
cruel  return,  to  make  towards  one  to  whom  England  owes  so  much. 
As  to  the  charge  of  no  Protestant  nurses  being  sent,  the  sub- 
joined list  will  convince  you  of  its  fallacy.    We  made  no  distinc- 
tions of  creed ;  any  one  who  was  a  good  and  skilful  nurse,  and  un- 
derstood the  practice  in  surgical  wards,  was  accepted,  provided,  of 
course,  that  we  had  their  friends'  consent,  and  that  in  other  re- 
spects, as  far  as  we  could  judge,  they  v^ere  of  unexceptionable 
character.    A  large  portion  of  the  wounded  being  Roman  Catho- 
lics, we  accepted  the  services  of  some  of  the  Sisters  of  Charity 
from  St.  Stephen's  hospital,  Dublin.    I  have  now  told  you  all,  and 
feel  sure  that  you  will  do  your  utmost  to  set  these  facts  j^lainly 
before  those  whose  minds  have  been  disquieted  by  these  false  and 
unjust  accusations.    I  should  have  thought  that  the  names  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Bracebridge,  who  accompanied  and  are  remaining  with 
Miss  Nightingale,  would  have  been  sufficient  guarantees  of  the 
evangelical  nature  of  the  work.    But  it  seems  nothing  can  stop 
the  stream  of  sectarian  bitterness. 

"  I  remain,  madam,  yours  faithfully, 

■"  Elizabeth  Herbeet." 


390  MISS  NIGHTINGALE. 

On  a  subsequent  occasion,  in  a  speecli  delivered  by  Mr.  Sydney 
Herbert  at  Oxford,  on  tlie  same  subject,  lie  said:  "I  recollect  an 
excellent  answer  being  given  to  a  query  of  this  kind  by  an  Irisli 
clergyman,  wlio  wlien  he  was  asked  to  what  sect  Miss  Nightingale 
belonged,  replied  :  '  She  belongs  to  a  sect  which  unfortunately  is  a 
very  rare  one — the  sect  of  the  Good  Samaritans.'  " 

The  Hon.  and  Revd.  Sydney  Godolphin  Osborne,  in  his 
painfully  interesting  work  upon  "  Scutari  and  its  Hospitals,"  ob- 
serves, relative  to  these  disgraceful  animadversions  upon  Miss 
Nightingale ; — "  I  have  heard  and  read  with  indignation,  the  re- 
marks hazarded  upon  her  religious  character.  I  found  her  myself 
to  be  in  her  every  word  and  action  a  Christian ;  I  thought  this 
quite  enough.  It  would  have  been  in  my  opinion  the  most  cruel 
impertinence,  to  scrutinize  her  words  and  acts,  to  discover  to 
which  of  the  many  bodies  of  true  Christians  she  belonged.  I 
have  conversed  with  her  several  times  on  the  deaths  of  those,  who 
I  had  visited  ministerially  in  the  hospitals,  with  whom  she  had 
been  M  hen  they  died.  I  never  heard  one  word  from  her  lips,  that 
would  not  have  been  just  what  I  should  have  expected  from  the 
lips  of  those  who  I  have  known  to  be  the  most  experienced 
and  devout  of  our  common  faith.  Her  work  ought  to  answer  for 
her  faith ;  at  least  none  should  dare  to  call  that  faith  in  question, 
in  opposition  to  such  work,  on  grounds  so  weak  and  trivial  as 
those  I  have  seen  urged.  That  she  has  been  equally  kind  and  at- 
tentive to  men  of  every  creed  ;  that  she  would  smooth  the  pillow 
and  give  water  to  a  dying  fellow-creature  who  might  own  no 
creed,  I  have  no  doubt ;  all  honour  to  her  that  she  does  feel,  that 
hers  is  the  Samaritan's— not  the  Pharisee's  work.  If  there  is 
blame  in  looking  for  a  Roman  Catholic  Priest  to  attend  a  dying 
Romanist,  let  me  share  it  with  her— I  did  it  again  and  again." 

This  gentleman's  more  particular  description  of  the  lady  her- 


MISS  NIGHTINGALE. 


391 


self,  is  especially  interesting.  He  says  : — "  Miss  Nightingale  in  ap- 
pearance, is  just  what  yon  would  expect  in  any  other  well-bred 
woman,  who  may  have  seen,  perhaps,  rather  more  than  thirty 
years  of  life :  her  manner  and  countenance  are  prepossessing,  and 
this  without  the  possession  of  positive  beanty:  it  is  a  face  not 
easily  forgotten,  pleasing  in  its  smile,  with  an  eye  betokening  great 
self-possession,  and  giving,  when  she  wishes,  a  quiet  look  of  firm 
determination  to  every  feature.  Her  general  demeanour  is  quiet, 
and  rather  reserved  :  still,  I  am  much  mistaken  if  she  is  not  gifted 
with  a  very  lively  sense  of  the  ridiculous.  In  conversation,  she 
speaks  on  matters  of  business  with  a  grave  earnestness,  one  would 
not  expect  from  her  appearance.  She  has  evidently  a  mind  dis- 
ciplined to  restrain  under  the  principles  of  the  action  of  the 
moment,  every  feeling  which  would  interfere  with  it.  She  has 
trained  herself  to  command,  and  learned  the  value  of  conciliation 
towards  others,  and  constraint  over  herself  I  can  conceive  her  to 
be  a  strict  disciplinarian :  she  throws  herself  into  a  work — as  its 
Head — as  such  she  knows  well  how  much  success  must  depend 
upon  literal  obedience  to  her  every  order.  She  seems  to  under- 
stand business  thoroughly.  Her  nerve  is  wonderful ;  I  have  been 
with  her  at  very  severe  operations ;  she  was  more  than  equal  to 
the  trial.  She  has  an  utter  disregard  of  contagion.  I  have  known 
her  spend  hours  over  men  dying  of  cholera  or  fever.  The  more 
awful  to  every  sense  any  particular  case,  especially  if  it  was  that  of 
a  dying  man,  her  slight  form  would  be  seen  bending  over  him,  ad- 
ministering to  his  ease  in  every  way  in  her  power,  and  seldom 
quitting  his  side  till  death  released  him." 

Inexpressibly  delightful  is  that  intimation  that  Miss  Nightin- 
gale gives  token  of  being  "  gifted  with  a  lively  sense  of  the  ridicu- 
lous." Possessing  the  exquisite  perception  of  the  pathetic  in  ex- 
istence which  her  whole  career  proclaims  her  to  have, — it  would 


392 


MISS  NIGHTINGALE. 


have  been  a  defect  in  lier  nature, — nay,  a  lack  of  tlie  complete 
feeling  for  pathos  itself— had  she  not  betrayed  a  capacity  for  re- 
ceiving humorous  impressions.  Humour  and  pathos  are  so  nearly 
allied,  in  their  source  within  the  human  heart, — so  mingled  in 
those  recesses  whence  spring  human  tears  at  the  touch  of  sympa- 
thy, that  scarcely  any  being  deeply  affected  by  mournful  emotion, 
can  remain  insensible  to  the  keen  appeal  that  resides  in  a  ludicrous 
idea.  Shakespeare,— who  comprehended  to  perfection  every  im- 
pulse of  humanity — affords  multitudinous  illustrations  of  this  close 
consociation  of  a  sense  of  pathos  and  a  sense  of  humour  in  the  finest 
natures.  That  particular  feature  chronicled  by  Mr.  Osborne  in  his 
personal  description  of  Miss  Nightingale,  is  just  the  exquisite  point 
— to  our  imagination — that  crowns  her  admirable  qualities.  It 
accords  with  an  intensely  beautiful  account  of  her,  that  was  related 
by  Mr.  Sydney  Herbert  at  a  public  meeting,  convened  in  Miss 
Nightingale's  honour.  He  said,  an  anecdote  had  lately  been  sent 
to  him  by  a  correspondent  showing  her  great  power  over  all  with 
whom  she  had  come  in  contact.  He  read  the  passage  from  the 
letter,  which  was  this  :— "I  have  just  heard  such  a  pretty  account 
from  a  soldier,  describing  the  comfort  it  was,  even  to  see  Florence 

pass  '  She  would  speak  to  one  and  to  another,  and  nod  and  smile 

to  a  many  more ;— but  she  couldn't  do  it  to  all,  you  know; 
we  lay  there  by  hundreds  ;  but  we  could  kiss  her  shadow  as  it  fell, 
and  lay  our  heads  on  the  pillow  again,  content.'— What  poetry 
there  is  in  these  men !  I  think  I  told  you  of  another,  who  said, 
'  Before  she  came,  there  was  such  cussin  and  swearin ;  and  after 
that,  it  was  as  holy  as  a  church.' "  That  consoling  word  or  two, 
that  gentle  "nod  and  smile"  in  passing,  were  precisely  the  tokens 
of  sympathy  that  would  come  with  such  home-felt  charm  to  those 
manly  hearts  from  a  face  possessing  the  emotional  expression  which 
we  can  conceive  it  naturally  to  have.    Just  the  woman,  with  just 


MISS  NIGHTINGALE. 


393 


the  countenance  to  exercise  an  almost  magical  moral  influence  over 
men's  minds.  We  are  told, — eye-witnesses  have  averred,  that  it 
was  singular  to  remark  how,  when  men,  frenzied,  perhaps  by  their 
wounds  and  disease,  had  worked  themselves  into  a  passionate  re- 
fusal to  submit  to  necessary  operations,  a  few  calm  sentences  of 
hers  seemed  at  once  to  allay  the  storm  ;  and  the  men  would  sub- 
mit willingly  to  the  painful  ordeal  they  had  to  undergo." — ISToble 
being  !  Exactly  that  blended  firmness  and  gentleness  which  makes 
a  woman's  nature  so  all-potent  in  its  beneficial  ascendancy  over 
manhood.  Rough,  brave  fellows,  that  would  have  resisted  like 
iron,  any  amount  of  men's  persuasion,  would  melt  at  once  into  sub- 
mission at  a  "  few  calm  sentences  "  from  those  lips  of  hers.  We 
can  fancy  the  mouth, — capable  of  smiles,  or  quivering  with  deepest 
feeling, — compressed  into  resolute  steadfastness,  as  it  persuaded 
the  men  into  reasonable  acquiescence  with  what  was  for  their  good, 
while  betraying  the  latent  sympathy  with  their  every  pang. 

Florence  Nightingale  is  a  woman  for  every  living  woman  to  be 
proud  of  calling  sister ;  and  she  herself  is  one  who  would  not  disdain 
to  allow  the  claim  of  sisterhood  from  the  very  lowliest  of  her  sex. 

Long  before  Miss  Nightingale  returned  from  the  East — and  she 
would  not  hear  of  going  back  to  England,  until  the  war  was  over ; 
although  her  health  and  strength  were  so  far  impaired,  that  when 
a  yacht  was  placed  at  her  disposal  by  Lord  Ward  to  admit  of  her 
taking  temporary  change  of  air  in  sea-excursions  to  recruit  her  for 
farther  work,  she  had  to  be  carried  down  to  the  vessel,  carefully 
and  reverently,  in  the  arms  of  the  men,  amidst  their  blessings- and 
prayers  for  her  speedy  recovery — the  Nation's  gratitude  could  not 
be  restrained  from  its  eager  desire  to  bestow  some  public  token  of  ac- 
knowledgment towards  a  woman,  who  they  felt,  had  earned  so  im- 
perative a  title  to  their  affectionate  thanks.  A  testimonial  of  some 
sort  was  agreed  upon  as  the  only  means  of  exhibiting  their  unani- 

50 


894 


MISS  NIGHTINaALE. 


mous  feeling,  and  of  permitting  every  one  to  contribute  their  share 
in  tlie  offering.  But  of  wliat  was  it  to  consist  ?  Sums  of  money  to 
a  lady  in  affluent  circumstances,  would  be  futile ;  ornaments  to  one 
whose  chosen  sphere  was  by  the  bedside  of  the  sick,  the  poor,  and 
the  dying,  would  be  idle.  Any  gift  to  herself,  who  had  given  her 
most  precious  possessions,  her  time,  her  attentions,  her  sympathy 
to  others,  was  not  to  be  thought  of  In  the  first  place,  it  was 
like  an  attempt  to  reward  that  which  was  beyond  reward, — 
to  pay  for  that  which  was  a  free  donation,  and,  moreover.  Miss 
Nightingale  herself  distinctly  declined  receiving  any  thing fo)'  lier- 
self.  The  only  thing  that  remained  then,  was  to  raise  a  fund  for 
benevolent  purposes ;  and  to  place  it  at  her  disposal,  that  she 
might  approj)riate  it  according  as  her  own  philanthropic  heart  and 
admirable  practical  judgment  should  think  best.  PubHc  meetings 
were  called,  presided  over  by  a  prince  of  the  blood-royal,  and  one 
who  had  been  a  personal  witness  of  Miss  Nightingale's  grand  work 
in  the  East ;  and  attended  by  peers,  members  of  parliament,  and 
some  of  the  highest  men  in  professional  repute.  They  debated  the 
question  of  the  proposed  "  Nightingale  Fund  "  in  the  noblest  spirit 
of  consideration ; — consideration  for  the  delicate  feelings  of  her 
who  was  the  object  of  this  testimonial  of  a  nation's  gratitude  ;  and 
consideration  for  those  who  were  desirous  of  making  this  public 
proffer  of  their  homage.  It  was  decided  that  "  a  fund  to  enable 
her  to  establish  an  institution  for  the  training,  sustenance,  and  pro- 
tection of  nurses  and  hospital  attendants  "  would  be  the  best  form 
for  this  national  testimonial  to  take  ;  and  a  copy  of  the  proceed- 
ings was  sent  out  to  Miss  Nightingale.  Her  own  reply  will  best 
express  the  feelings  with  which  she  received  it : — 

"  Scnr^uii  Baekack  Hospital,  January  6,  185G. 

"  Dear  Mes.  Heebeet, — In  answer  to  your  letter  (which  fol- 
lowed me  to  the  Crimea  and  back  to  Scutari)  proposing  to  me  the 


MISS  NIGHTINGALE 


395 


undertaking  of  a  Training  Scliool  for  JSTurses,  I  will  first  beg  to  say 
tliat  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  express  what  I  liave  felt  in  regard  to 
tlie  sympathy  and  the  confidence  shown  to  me  by  the  originators  and 
supporters  of  this  scheme.  Exposed  as  I  am  to  be  misinterpreted 
and  misunderstood,  in  a  field  of  action  in  which  the  work  is  new, 
complicated,  and  distant  from  many  who  sit  in  judgment  upon  it,' — 
it  is,  indeed,  an  abiding  support  to  have  such  sympathy  and  such 
appreciation  brought  home  to  me  in  the  midst  of  labour  and  diffi- 
culties all  but  overpowering.  I  must  add,  however,  that  my  present 
work  is  such  as  I  would  never  desert  for  any  other,  so  long  as  I  see 
room  to  believe  that  what  I  may  do  here  is  unfinished.  May  I,  then, 
beg  yon  to  express  to  the  Committee  that  I  accept  their  proposal, 
provided  I  may  do  so  on  their  understanding  of  this  great  uncer- 
tainty, as  to  when  it  will  be  possible  to  me  to  carry  it  out. 
"  Believe  me  to  be, 

"  Yours  very  truly, 

"FLOEElSrCE  ISTlGHTmOALE." 

Like  all  her  letters,  this  one  is  most  characteristic.  The  steady 
perseverance  in  the  work  she  had  in  hand,  and  the  determination 
not  to  abandon  it,  until  it  were  completed,  is  -preciselj  the  p7'a€tical 
and  constant  spirit  which  enabled  her  to  achieve  so  much ;  while 
the  reference  to  the  contingent  uncertainty,  is  consistent  with  one 
who  was  hourly  witness  to  the  precariousness  of  human  projects, 
human  hopes,  human  existence. 

This  "  Nightingale  Fund,"  in  its  ultimate  destination,  is  in  fact, 
but  giving  the  admirable  lady  more  work  to  do  ;  but  as  her  friend, 
Mr.  Sydney  Herbert,  observed : — "  Miss  Nightingale  looks  to  her 
reward  from  this  country  in  having  a  fresh  field  for  her  labours,  and 
means  of  extending  the  good  that  she  has  already  begun.  A  com- 
pliment cannot  be  paid  dearer  to  her  heart  than  in  giving  her  more 
work  to  do."    The  object  of  the  "  Training  School  for  Nurses,"  is 


396 


MISS  NIGHTINGALE. 


to  educate  Nurses  in  the  Central  Institution,  to  practise  them,  in 
tLe  schools  for  such  duties  which  the  various  fine  hospitals  already 
in  existence  present,  and  to  send  them  out  fitted  to  re-instruct  other 
nurses,  in  branches  of  the  parent  institution ;  thus  establishing  a 
kind  of  normal  college  for  nurses,  that  shall  ramify  throughout  the 
whole  country  in  its  beneficial  effects.  Thus,  at  least,  the  present 
idea  of  the  institution  seems  to  be ;  but  its  future  details  are  ju- 
diciously left  entii'ely  at  the  discretion  of  her  who  has  proved  her- 
self consummately  competent  to  judge  and  act  on  this  subject ;  and 
to  whom,  moreover,  the  Fund  is  offered  as  a  peoples'  gift  of  grati- 
tude. 

But  while  the  nation  was  preparing  its  tribute,  crowned  heads 
presented  their  individual  tokens  of  admiration  to  the  woman  who, 
as  Mr.  Osborne  forcibly  remarked,  was  "  the  one  individual,  who  in 
this  whole  unha]3j)y  war,  has  shown  more  than  any  other,  what  real 
energy,  guided  by  good  sense,  can  do  to  meet  the  calls  of  sudden 
emergency." 

Oriental  taste  and  good  feeling  in  the  person  of  the  Sultan, 
presented  Miss  Nightingale  with  a  magnificent  bracelet,  set  in 
brilliants,  "  as  a  mark  of  his  estimation  of  the  devotion  evinced 
by  this  lady  in  the  British  hospitals."  English  heart  in  the  per- 
son of  England's  queen,  the  gracious  sovereign,  who  with  her  own 
royal  hand  wrote  those  cordial  words : — ■"  I  wish  Miss  Nightingale 
and  the  ladies  would  tell  these  poor  noble,  wounded,  and  sick  men 
that  no  one  takes  a  warmer  interest,  or  feels  more  for  their  suffer- 
ings, or  admires  their  courage  and  heroism  more  than  then*  queen ; 
day  and  night  she  thinks  of  her  beloved  troops," — sent  Miss  Night- 
ingale a  jewel,  the  design  of  which  was  even  more  precious,  in  its 
beautiful  emblematic  significance,  than  even  the  costly  gems  that 
composed  its  adornment.  It  is  described  as  being  formed  of  a  St. 
George's  cross,  in  ruby-red  enamel,  on  a  white  field,  representing 


MISS  NIGPITINaALE 


397 


England.  This  is  encircled  by  a  black  band,  typifying  the  office 
of  charity,  on  which  is  inscribed  a  golden  legend,  "  Blessed  are  the 
merciful."  The  letters  '  V.  E.'  surmounted  by  a  crown  in  diamonds, 
are  impressed  upon  the  centre  of  the  St.  George's  Cross,  from  which 
emanate  rays  of  gold.  Wide-spreading  branches  of  palm  in  bright 
green  enamel,  tipped  with  gold,  form  a  framework  for  the  shield, 
their  stems  being  banded  with  a  riband  of  blue  enamel,  inscribed 
with  the  word,  '  Crimea.'  At  the  top  three  brilliant  stars  of  dia- 
monds illustrate  the  idea  of  the  light  of  Heaven  shed  upon  labours 
of  Mercy,  Peace,  and  Charity.  On  the  back  of  the  jewel  is  an  in- 
scription written  by  her  Majesty,  recording  it  to  be  a  gift  in  memory 
of  services  rendered  to  her  brave  army  by  Miss  Nightingale." 

Meantime,  the  lady  was  diligently  pursuing  to  a  close  her 
glorious  task  in  the  East ;  and  while  these  marks  of  home  sym- 
pathy reached  herself,  she  was  still  impersonating  the  sympathy  of 
home  to  many  a  poor  fellow  dying  far  away.  She  not  only  shed 
this  balm  over  the  hearts  of  those  hapless  ones  whom  she  had 
taken  beneath  the  wings  of  her  dove-like  ministry ;  but  she  sped 
homeward,  on  the  wings  of  her  kindly  feeling,  missives  of  consola- 
tion and  aid  scarcely  less  needed.  A  poor  woman,  named  Lau- 
rence, living  in  South  Shields,  whose  husband  was  in  the  89th 
regiment  in  the  Crimea,  not  having  heard  of  him  for  many  months, 
was  emboldened  to  write  to  Miss  Nightingale,  soliciting  her  to 
make  enquiries  regarding  his  fate.    This  was  the  reply : — • 

"  Scutari  Baerack  Hospital,  5th  March,  1866. 

"  Deae  Mrs.  Laurei^ce, — I  was  exceedingly  grieved  to  receive 
your  letter ;  because  I  have  only  sad  news  to  give  you  in  return. 
Alas !  in  the  terrible  time  we  had  last  year,  when  we  lost  from 
seventy  to  eighty  men  per  day  in  these  hospitals  alone,  many 
widows  had  to  suffer  like  you  ;  and  your  husband,  I  regret  to  say, 


398 


MISS  NIGHTINOALE. 


was  among  the  niimlber.  He  died  in  tMs  liospital,  February  20th, 
18  55,  just  at  the  time  when  onr  mortality  reached  its  height  of 
fever  and  dysentery  ;  and  on  that  day  we  Iburied  eighty  men.  In 
order  that  I  might  be  sure  that  there  was  no  mistake  in  the  name, 
I  wrote  up  to  the  colonel  of  his  regiment,  who  confii-ms  the  news 
in  the  note  I  enclose ;  and  though  he  is  mistaken  in  the  precise 
date  of  your  husband's  death,  there  is  no  mistake,  alas  !  in  the 
fact.  I  wished  to  get  this  reply  before  I  wrote  to  you.  Your 
husband's  balance  due  to  him  was  £1.  2.  4^-,  which  was  remitted 
home  to  the  Secretary  of  War,  September  25th,  1855,  from  whom 
you  can  have  it  on  application.  As  you  were  not  aware  of 
being  a  widow,  you  are,  of  course,  not  in  receipt  of  any  allowance 
as  a  widow.  You  should,  therefore,  make  application  to  Colonel 
Lefroy,  K.  A.,  Hon.  secretary  of  the  Patriotic  Fund,  16  a,  Great 
George  Street,  "Westminster,  London.  I  enclose  the  necessary 
papers  for  you  to  fill  up.  Your  colonel's  letter  will  be  suflicient 
proof  of  your  husband's  death.  I  enclose  it  for  the  purpose.  You 
will  state  all  particulars  about  your  children.  Your  minister 
will  help  you  to  fill  it  up.  I  am  very  sorry  for  you  and  your 
trouble.  Should  you  have  any  difficulty  about  the  Patriotic 
Fund,  you  may  make  use  of  this  letter,  which  will  be  sufficient 
evidence  for  you  to  produce  of  your  being  a  widow.  With  sincere 
sympathy  for  your  great  loss, 

"  I  remain,  yours  truly, 

"  FlOEEHCE  NiGHTmGALE." 

Thus  minutely  did  this  gentle-hearted  woman  enter  into  the 
griefs  and  wants  of  those,  only  indirectly  connected  with  her  self- 
appointed  work :  in  the  midst  of  all  her  arduous  duties,  present 
and  immediate,  she  could  still  find  time  for  consolation  and  assist- 
ance to  those  at  a  distance,  even  in  veriest  details.  Among  all  her 
anxieties,  responsibilities,  and  more  vital  affairs,  also,  she  found 


MISS  NIGHTINGALE. 


399 


opportunity  to  attend  to  intelligential  needs ;  for  on  one  occasion, 
we  find  from  a  letter  written  in  tlie  camp  before  Sebastopol,  during 
the  spring  of  1856,  that  "  tlirougli  tlie  exertions  of  Miss  Nightin- 
gale, a  considerable  quantity  of  school  materials,  such  as  maps  and 
slates,  was  suj)plied  to  the  schools."  From  her  own  stores  she  sup- 
plied books  and  games  to  cheer  the  dull  hours  of  convalescence , 
and  was  foremost  in  every  plan  for  affording  the  men  harmless 
recreation.  On  her  own  responsibility,  she  advanced  from  the 
"  Times  Fund "  the  necessary  sum  for  completing  the  erection  of 
the  Inkermann  Cafe  ;  she  aided  the  active  senior  chaplain  in  estab- 
lishing a  library  and  school-room,  and  warmly  supported  him  in  get- 
ting up  evening  lectures  for  the  men.  She  took  an  interest  in  their 
private  affairs,  and  forwarded  their  little  savings  to  their  families  in 
England  at  a  time  when  there  was  no  provision  for  sending  home 
small  sums  ;  she  wrote  letters  for  the  sick,  took  charge  of  bequests 
for  the  dying,  and  |)unctually  forwarded  these  legacies  of  affection  to 
relatives  ;  she  studied  the  comfort  of  those  wha  recovered,  and  had 
a  tent  made  to  protect  such  of  them  as  were  permitted  to  take  the 
air  from  the  searching  rays  of  an  eastern  sun, — ^moreover,  enduring 
the  mortification  of  a  refusal  from  the  hospital  authorities  to  have 
this  tent  put  up.  Her  activity  of  intelligence  was  almost  miracu- 
lous ;  one  of  its  personal  observers.  Dr.  Pincoflfe,  declares  "  I  be- 
lieve that  there  never  was  a  severe  case  of  any  kind  that  escaped 
her  notice  ;  and  sometimes,  it  was  wonderful  to  see  her  at  the  bed- 
side of  a  patient  who  had  been  admitted  perhaps  but  an  hour 
before,  and  of  whose  arrival  one  would  hardly  have  supposed  it 
possible  she  could  already  be  cognizant." 

And  now  the  time  approached  when  her  noble  duty  in  the 
East  came  to  a  close,  by  the  declaration  of  peace.  The  date  of 
her  intended  return  to  England  was  kept  a  profound  secret,  out 
c,f  dread  of  that  publicity  which  she  has  ever  carefully  shunned. 


400 


MISS  NIGHTINGALE. 


Not  only  were  the  day  and  spot  of  her  jDrobable  landing  preserved 
unknown,  lest  the  popular  welcome  that  would  have  greeted  her 
arrival  should  take  place ;  but  desirous  of  maintaining  the  strictest 
incognito,  she  refused  the  offer  of  a  passage  in  a  British  man  of 
war,  and  embarked  on  board  a  French  vessel,  passing  through 
France  by  night,  and  travelling  through  her  own  country  unrecog- 
nized, until  she  arrived  at  her  own  home  in  Derbyshire,  on  Friday, 
August  15th,  1856. 

The  respect  observed  towards  her  evident  desire  for  privacy,  is 
well  expressed  in  some  graceful  stanzas  that  appeared  in  "  Punch  " 
for  August  28th,  1856  :— 

THE   NIGHTINGALE'S  KETURN. 

BY  MR.    TOM  TAYLOR. 

Most  blessed  things  come  silently,  and  silently  depart ; 
Noiseless  steals  spring-time  on  the  year,  and  comfort  on  the  heart ; 
And  still,  and  light,  and  gentle,  like  a  dew,  the  rain  must  be. 
To  quicken  seed  in  furrow,  and  blossom  upon  tree. 

Nile  has  its  foaming  rapids,  freshes  from  mountain  snows  : 
But  where  his  streams  breed  fruitfulness,  serene  and  calm  it  flows ; 
And  when  he  over-brims,  to  cheer  his  banks  on  either  side. 
You  scarce  can  mark,  so  gradual,  the  swelling  of  his  tide. 

The  wings  of  Angels  make  no  stir,  as  they  ply  their  work  of  love ; 
But  by  the  balm  they  shed  around,  we  know  them  that  they  move. 
God  spake  not  in  the  thunder,  nor  in  the  crushing  blast ; 
His  utterance  was  in  the  "  still  small  voice  "  that  came  at  last. 

So  she,  our  sweet  Saint  Florence,  modest,  and  still,  and  calm. 
With  no  parade  of  martyr's  cross,  no  pomp  of  martyr's  palm, 
To  the  place  of  plague  and  famine,  foulness,  and  wounds,  and  pain, 
Went  out  upon  her  gracious  toil,  and  so  returns  again. 

No  shouting  crowds  about  her  path,  no  multitude's  hot  breath. 
To  feed  with  wind  of  vanity  the  doubtful  fires  of  faith  : 
Her  path  by  hands  official  all  uusmooth'd,  her  aims  decried 
By  the  Levites,  who,  when  need  was,  pass'd  on  the  other  side. 


MISS  NIGHTINGALE 


401 


When  titles,  pensions,  orders,  with  random  hand  are  shower'd, 
'Tis  well  that,  save  with  blessings,  she  still  should  walk  undower'd. 
What  title  like  her  own  sweet  name,  with  the  music  all  its  own  ? 
What  order  like  the  halo  by  her  good  deeds  round  her  thrown  ? 

Like  her  own  bird — all  voiceless  while  the  daylight  songsters  trill. 
Sweet  singer  in  the  darkness,  when  all  songs  else  are  still, — 
She  on  that  night  of  suff'ring,  that  chill'd  other  hearts  to  stone. 
Came  with  soft  step  and  gentle  speech,  yet  wise  and  firm  of  tone. 

Think  of  the  prayers  for  her,  that  to  the  praying  heart  came  back  ^ 
In  rain  of  blessings,  seeming  still  to  spring  upon  her  track : 
The  comfort  of  her  graciousness  to  those  whose  road  to  death 
Was  dark  and  doubtful,  till  she  showed  the  light  of  love  and  faith. 

Then  leave  her  to  the  quiet  she  has  chosen  :  she  demands 
No  greeting  from  our  brazen  throats,  and  vulgar  clapping  hands. 
Leave  her  to  the  still  comfort  the  saints  know,  that  have  striven. 
What  are  our  earthly  honours  ?    Her  honours  are  in  heaven 

There  was  one  gracious  welcome  tliat  Miss  Niglitingale  could 
not  but  accept ;  and  that  was  from  the  Koyal  Lady  who  was  the 
sovereign  head  of  the  army  which  had  so  long  Ibeen  the  especial  ob- 
ject of  Miss  Nightingale's  devoted  care.  A  visit  of  some  days  at 
Balmoral,  where  the  Queen  was  then  staying  in  highland  seclusion 
and  enjoyment,  was  spent  by  Miss  Nightingale  in  the  sunshine  of 
kindly  favour ;  being  treated,  during  her  sojourn  there,  with  the 
most  marked  distinction  by  her  Majesty  and  every  member  of  the 
royal  family. 

Since  her  return  home.  Miss  Nightingale's  name  has  met  the 
public  ear,  but  in  quiet  deeds  of  practical  goodness,  consistent  with 
her  whole  career.  Her  own  letters  best  serve  to  show  the  single- 
minded  views  that  actuate  her.  When  a  desire  was  testified  by 
some  of  the  working  men  of  Sheffield  to  erect  a  monument  in  that 
town  to  the  memory  of  their  countrymen  who  fell  in  the  Crimea, 
application  was  made  to  Miss  Nightingale,  through  her  relative. 
Miss  Shore,  of  Meersbrook  Hall,  requesting  that  she  would  consent 

.51 


402 


MISS  NIGHTINGALE. 


to    lay   the   foundation-stone.     Miss   Nightingale's   reply  was 
this : — 

"  Lea  Hukst,  Matlock,  Oct.  23,  1856. 

"  My  deae  Ltdia  : — The  purpose  mentioned  to  me  in  your  let-  « 
ter  has  my  deepest  sympathy.  It  would  have  been  most  congenial 
with  my  feelings,  on  my  return  from  the  death-beds  of  so  many 
brave  men  to  take  a  part  in  it.  I  shall  be  with  the  men  of  Shef- 
field in  spiiit  whenever  they  execute  their  proposed  plan.  It  is 
with  real  pain  that  I  feel  compelled  to  decline  the  privilege  which 
they  offer  to  me,  of  laying  the  first  stone.  But  I  believe  I  shall 
best  honour  the  cause  of  those  brave  dead  by  abstaining  from  ap- 
pearing to  court  that  publicity  which  I  consider  to  have  been  my 
greatest  impediment  in  the  work  I  have  been  engaged  in  for  theii^ 
sakes ;  impeding  it  by  arousing  in  some  minds  care  for  worldly 
distinctions.  I  will  ask  you  to  give  this  letter  to  Mr.  Overend  ; 
and  I  should  be  glad  that  Mr.  Overend  should  make  known  to 
those  who  had  expressed  a  desire  that  I  should  lay  the  first  stone, 
my  reasons  and  my  sorrow  for  not  doing  so ;  and  I  should  say  also 
that  I  feel  an  especial  regret  in  declining  this  at  Sheflaeld,  from  old 
and  dear  family  recollections  connected  with  the  place.  I  must 
apologize  for  so  late  an  answer,  as  I  have  only  just  returned 
home. 

"  Pray  believe  me,  my  dear  Lydia, 

"  Very  truly  yours, 

"  Eloeence  Nightingale." 

Enclosed  was  a  check  for  ^620  towards  the  object  proposed. 

These  letters  of  Miss  Nightingale  are  singularly  auto-character- 
istic ;  they  exhibit  that  beautiful  union  of  vigour  and  gentleness,  firm 
decision  and  quiet  modesty,  fine  judgment  and  enthusiastic  feeling, 
which  compose  her  womanly  character. 

A  striking  instance  of  the  right-minded  firmness  and  spirit  she 


MISS  NIGHTINGALE. 


403 


could  display,  wlien  occasion  demanded  self-assertion,  is  contained 
in  a  letter  wliicli  accompanied  tlie  one  that  she  wi'ote  from  Scutari, 
accepting  the  original  proposal  of  the  "  Nightingale  Fund."  The 
remarks  in  this  subjoined  letter  appeared  to  the  committee  (to  use 
their  own  expression)  "  so  replete  with  sound  common  sense,  that 
they  used  the  permission  they  had  received  to  quote  them."  These 
are  her  words : —      ■  ■.  ■, 

"The  confidence  which  the  subscribers  to  this  fund  have  shown 
me  has  been  so  generous  and  extraordinary  that  it  is  perhaps  hardly 
necessary  for  me  to  allude  to  a  very  natural  letter,  which  I  am  told 
has  been  printed,  to  the  effect  that  I  must  forward  a  prospectus  of 
what  I  am  going  to  do,  before  I  can  expect  to  have  money  sub- 
scribed to  do  it.  I  think  this  perfectly  reasonable  if  I  originally 
had  asked  for  the  money,  which,  of  course,  I  did  not.  But  to  fur- 
nish a  cut  and  dried  prospectus  of  my  plans,  situated  as  I  am  here, 
when  T  cannot  look  forward  a  month,  much  less  a  year,  is  what  I 
would  not  if  I  could,  and  I  could  not  if  I  would.  I  would  not  if 
I  could,  because  every  thing  which  succeeds  is  not  the  production 
of  a  scheme  of  rules  and  regulations  made  beforehand,  but  of  a 
mind  observing  and  adapting  itself  to  wants  and  events.  I  could 
not  if  I  would,  because  it  is  simply  impossible  to  find  time  in  the 
midst  of  one  overpowering  work  to  digest  and  concoct  another  ; 
and  if  it  could  be  done  it  would  be  simply  bad,  and  to  be  hereaf- 
ter altered  or  destroyed." 

In  these  few  pithy  sentences  lies  the  clue  to  understand  much 
that  is  almost  incomprehensible  in  the  wondrous  magnitude,  difii- 
culty  and  complication  of  the  work  that  Miss  Nightingale  achieved. 
She  possesses  that  mind  capable  of  "  observing  and  adapting  itself 
to  wants  and  events  ; "  the  power  of  seizing  at  once  the  scope  and 
necessities  of  emergencies  as  they  arise ;  the  courage  and  ability  to 
meet  them ;  and  the  faculty  of  fastening  the  attention  upon  that 


404 


MISS  NIGHTINGALE 


particular  work  wliich  demands  immediate  doing.  The  being  able 
to  concentrate  the  whole  thought  upon  the  present  act  in  hand,  to 
cope  with  it  promptly,  and  to  execute  it  solely — one  thing  at  a 
time — is  the  way  to  perform  these  wonders  of  accumulated  achieve- 
ment. Probably  no  one — not  even  eye-witnesses  of  the  perplexi- 
ties and  painful  duties  that  surrounded  her— will  ever  be  able  fully 
to  conceive  the  amount  of  spirit-toil  as  well  as  body-toil  which  that 
truly-called  "  incomparable  woman  "  went  through,  while  carrying 
out  her  great  design  in  the  East ;  and,  therefore,  it  is  next  to  im- 
possible duly  to  estimate  the  true  bulk  of  what  she  accomplished  ; 
but  even  so  far  as  we  can  discern  of  that  which  she  effected,  it  is  a 
marvel  of  womanly  achievement. 

It  was  just  one  of  those  extraordinary  tasks, — entirely  out  of  the 
ordinary  course  of  events — that  none  but  a  woman  could  execute  ; 
yet,  that  not  one  woman  in  ten  million  could  have  performed.  It  re- 
quired a  woman's  tenderness,  a  woman's  delicacy,  a  woman's  instinct 
of  discernment,  in  its  nursing  ministry ;  while  it  required  the  intellect, 
the  moral  command,  and  the  nerve, — rarely  to  be  found  united  in 
woman, — ^necessary  to  meet  the  multifarious  difficulties  it  involved. 

The  grand  point  in  Miss  Nightingale's  character  is  this  rare 
combination  of  invincible  spirit,  and  softest  charity.  Her  high 
spirit  is  of  the  noblest  sort ;  it  gives  her  perfect  controul  over  her- 
self and  others, — temper,  ]3atience,  endurance  in  herself;  courage, 
firmnness,  influence  with  others.  Her  charity  is  of  the  largest 
kind ;  it  includes  forbearance,  gentleness,  loving  sympathy  with  all 
her  human  brethren.  It  inspired  her  with  the  divine  desire  to 
soothe  care,  to  minister  to  sickness,  to  cheer  and  console  death  it' 
self:  it  taught  her  how  to  alleviate  distress  in  the  living,  and  even 
how  best  to  comfort  survivors. 

The  liberal-minded,  as  well  as  liberal-hearted  way  in  which  this 
lady  confers  her  benevolences,  may  be  illustrated  by  the  following 


MISS  NIGHTINGALE. 


405 


incident  and  letter.  There  is  a  cliaritable  institution  in  France, 
called  the  "  (Euvre  de  Notre  Dame  D'Orient,"  under  the  direction 
of  the  Abbe  Legendre,  almoner  of  the  hospital  of  Bourbonne-les- 
bains,  a  town  where  a  great  number  of  military  men  are  accus- 
tomed to  resort  every  year  for  the  benefit  of  the  waters.  On  the 
formation  of  a  relief  fund,  destined  to  ameliorate  the  condition  of 
infirm  soldiers  after  they  are  discharged  from  the  hospital.  Miss 
Nightingale  forwarded  her  donation  of  a  hundred  francs  through 
Lady  Fox  Strangways,  widow  of  the  general  who  was  killed  at  In- 
kermann  ;  the  donation  being  accompanied  by  this  letter  addressed 
to  the  Abbe  Legendre  : — 

"  SiE, — I  feel  the  warmest  sympathy  with  you  in  the  touching 
object  of  your  work,  and  I  am  happy  to  join  in  it  to  the  hmited  ex- 
tent which  my  own  engagements  allow.  I  received,  too,  from  the 
excellent  religious  ladies  who  were  attached  to  the  French  army  in 
the  East,  so  many  tokens  of  their  friendship, — they  gave  me  their 
assistance  with  such  entire  self-denial,  and  lightened  my  hard  task 
in  the  hospitals  with  so  much  devotedness,  that  I  shall  always  seek 
any  opportunity  of  showing  my  gratitude  to  France,  and  to  her 
brave  children,  whom  I  have  been  taught  by  those  ladies  to  love 
and  respect. 

"  I  am,  sir,  yours  truly, 

"FlOEENCE  NiGHTmGALE." 

From  slight  but  significant  circumstances  constantly  transpiring, 
the  public  may  gather  how  faithfully  and  steadily  Miss  Nightin- 
gale is  persevering  in  the  lofty  course  she  has  adopted  as  that  of 
her  life's  aim.  They  find  that  she  is  quietly  adding  to  those  stores 
of  practical  knowledge  and  experience,  which  she  has  hitherto  so 
effectively  devoted  to  the  service  of  her  suffering  fellow-creatures, 


406  MISS  NIGHTINGALE. 

and  wliicli  slie  evidently  purposes  dedicating  to  tlieir  cause,  wlien 
the  "  Nightingale  Fund"  shall  have  placed  munificent  means  at  her 
command  for  the  farther  carrying  out  of  her  vast  design.  By  oc- 
casional tidings  of  her  movements,  we  find  her  occupied  in  visiting 
surgical  hospitals,  examining  medical  wards,  inspecting  infirmaries, 
and  continually  treasuring  up  fresh  opportunities  for  observation 
and  administration.  Like  a  truly  great  and  modest  mind— hers 
never  thinks  it  can  cease  to  learn. 

With  such  a  nature, — at  once  so  humble  yet  reliant,  so  tender, 
yet  powerful  and  energetic,  so  devoted,  so  firm,  and  so  liberal, 

 Miss  Nightingale  will  doubtless  effect  beneficial  results  to  her 

species  now  unforeseen  in  their  full  extent.  She  who  appropriated 
her  own  fortune  with  a  lavish  hand  to  the  v/ork  she  had  undertaken, 
will  assuredly  distribute  with  judicious  outlay  sums  of  large  amount 
committed  to  her  disposal.  God  direct  and  speed  her  in  her  new 
task,  as  he  manifestly  guided  and  protected  her  through  the  pre- 
vious one !  His  blessing  rests  upon  such  single-souled  beings  as 
Florence  Nightingale;  and  it  visibly  re-emanates  through  the 
multiplied  blessings  His  grace  enables  her  to  shed  upon  mankind. 

Not  only  in  the  direct  benefits  conferred  by  such  a  woman  as 
Miss  Nightingale,  does  her  sacred  commission  stand  revealed  ;  but 
in  the  indirect  effects  produced  by  her  example,  is  her  heaven-sent 
goodness  presented  to  the  world.  It  is  this  thought— that  she  is 
an  evidence  of  her  Creator's  vouchsafements  to  his  creatures— that 
Miss  Nightingale  must  submit  to  the  gaze  of  admiring  humanity. 
It  must  reconcile  her  to  have  her  motives  canvassed,  her  character 
scrutinized,  her  actions  applauded ;  and  moreover,  when  her  modest 
delicacy  would  shrink  from  homage,  let  her  benignly  remember  that 
gratitude  is  an  irrepressible  feeling,  and  must  be  yielded  its  eager 
and  enthusiastic  utterance. 


M  I  S  S    N  I  G  H  T  I  N  a  A  L  E  .  407 

Ir  Florence  Mglitingale  all  the  world  gloriJEies  a  woman  wlio 
embodies  tlie  principle  of  devotion,  in  tlie  widest  sense  of  the 
word;  true  devoutness  to  God, — worshipping  liim  by  best  service, 
in  benefiting  ber  fellow-mortals  ;  and  fervent  consecration  of  her- 
self to  a  high  and  immortal  cause. 

•V 


THE  :enj). 


